


Primarina's Advent Calendar

by Primarina (PastelBrachypelma)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Blizzards & Snowstorms, Canon Compliant, Changing Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), F/M, Fire, First Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Food, Food Kink, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Mistletoe, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), References to The Nutcracker, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Sick Character, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snow, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBrachypelma/pseuds/Primarina
Summary: Decided to try drawlight's Advent Calendar challenge, to add some Christmas cheer to my writing! Will I be able to keep up? We'll see!Tags might be added as I go! The archive warning, however, will remain unchanged. (No surprise deaths. I promise!)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 70





	1. Mistletoe

“You know mistletoe is a parasite, don’t you, Angel?” Crowley asked, temporarily contemplating the world upside down, his head resting on the arm of the sofa he was reclining on. 

“And who’s to blame for that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, tongue trapped between his teeth as he stretched upwards from his position on the ladder, carefully adorning the entrance to his bookshop with a sprig of mistletoe. 

Crowley made a dismissive noise, picking up his head and lifting the wine glass in his hand to his lips. “Not me.” 

“No?” Aziraphale asked, distracted for a moment. “There! All done!” He beamed, tugging his waistcoat down from where it had ridden up, exposing his dress shirt clad belly to the bookshop’s slightly stuffy, bit-too-warm air. (He found that any shops that were kept at this sort of temperature were less likely to be lingered in by potential customers in this sort of weather.) 

“I thought you hated Christmas,” Crowley pointed out, finishing his glass and pouring another from the rich, winter wine he’d brought over for their customary after dinner drinks.

Contrary to popular belief, it is demons who love Christmas. The holiday season’s meaning has degraded over the years from a celebration of family, love, warmth, and, for some, the birth of a Savior, and has become more about getting the most expensive new toy or gadget, hunting down the best deals, the same five Christmas songs in every shop, Starbucks holiday cups, and if the shop clerk said “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays.” It was a veritable playground for demons making trouble. Angels despised how commercial it had become, and mostly focused on the few families who actually went to church and celebrated simply, with a manger set up in their living rooms. 

“I like Christmas!” Aziraphale protested, which was true, though he liked it for the reason most humans seemed to like it most: holiday decorations, good food, and an excuse to drink peppermint cocoa and other minty holiday drinks that barely counted as coffee at all. (Crowley, who considered himself a coffee connoisseur, despised these overly saturated drinks calling themselves “coffee.”) “It reminds me to be thankful for what we have.” He climbed down the ladder, minding the creaky wooden rungs, even though they would never dare break no matter how much holiday weight was added to the angel’s waistline. 

“Oh.” Crowley hadn’t been expecting that, and he chose to convince himself that the color he could feel rising to his cheeks was due to the amount of wine he’d consumed. “Right, yeah, I didn’t even think…”

They were, after all, verging on the first Christmas since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. It was their first Christmas spent without sides to report to, and thus both of them actually had the Christmas holidays off for the first time in millennia. 

(Crowley had actually had one holiday season off, but that was because he was sleeping through it. Aziraphale had never had any holiday off at all in six thousand years.) 

“Yes. ‘Oh’,” Aziraphale tutted in a playfully mocking tone as he puttered into the kitchenette. The smell of boiling milk wafted into the main sitting area of the bookshop. “Cocoa, dear?” The angel asked, mostly out of politeness and habit. Crowley would decline, because sweets weren’t quite to his taste. Oh, he indulged from tone to time, of course, but he had to be in the right sort of mood. 

But cocoa never appealed to him. Well, Aziraphale’s cocoa never did. He didn’t like the way the dairy product made the drink cling to the sides of his throat. Being a serpent, he had a very particular gag reflex, and cocoa made with milk, especially whole fat milk which was the way Aziraphale tended to make it (“it’s just not the same if you make it any other way, Crowley!”), mostly made him want to vomit. So, as usual, and as expected, he replied: “No thank you, Angel. ‘M good.” 

“All right, dear. Suit yourself,” Aziraphale sang, still lightheartedly teasing. Crowley chuckled warmly at his bastard angel. 

A few minutes passed in companionable silence. Under the sounds of cars whooshing by and people walking home and Christmas carollers in the street outside, there was the bubbling sound of milk on an open flame, the melancholy croon of a violin, scratch of needle on vinyl, hum of an angel singing along, splash of milk hitting favored mug, clink of spoon against porcelain, soft footsteps, and the roar of a fire suddenly coming to life. 

Crowley groaned, his cold bones creaking as he migrated to be closer to the fire and away from the dark. He’d lost his sunglasses sometime after his third glass of wine when the bookshop seemed to fade around the edges and the relationship between himself and Aziraphale seemed strongest. The demon lowered himself with a sigh into the cream-colored armchair across from the tartan one Aziraphale was sat in, sipping his cocoa noisily from his mug. It was an endearing sound, though perhaps only Crowley thought so, seeing as he was so endeared to Aziraphale’s every motion, every sound, every desire. 

Crowley hummed in contentment, slouching in his armchair, which was already miraculously warm, as if it had sat before the fire for hours. It wouldn’t think of being anything else, but it wasn’t his magic that did this, which was the cause of the demon’s unabashed contentment. 

Aziraphale had warmed his chair. 

Aziraphale wanted him here. 

Aziraphale wanted him to stay. 

And if a certain demon who liked Christmas in ways Hell would not approve dozed off in a chair warmed by an angel just for him, and if said angel who liked Christmas in all the human ways Heaven despised covered him up with a blanket and watched over him all night, well...there was only one being who had anything to say of importance on the matter, and She thought it was very good indeed.


	2. Snow

It was cold. It was so, so, very cold. It was so cold that it hurt to breathe and his ears were screaming at him from the force of the wind and his toes felt numb and his fingers were blue and trembling, but he had to keep moving. He had to.

A blizzard had hit London with all the force of an abusive spouse, spitting thick clouds of snow onto every available surface, spilling ice onto sidewalks and roads, and sending hail pelting down into the world, turning the powdery snow into hardened mountains knee and thigh deep even on the tallest figures. It was absolutely awful, and it had, rightfully, shut everything down. No businesses were running, no cars were moving about sluggishly, no humans were walking down streets. Children weren’t even playing in their backyards! No, it was all so frightfully quiet, except for the howling winds and the battering of hail on windowpanes.

And Crowley absolutely should not have been out in it.

Crowley should, rightfully, be at home with the heat cranked up to downright tropical temperatures. Crowley should, rightfully, be tucked up in bed watching Golden Girls on his laptop with a streaming mug of bitter black coffee and white chocolate popcorn. Crowley should, rightfully, be smirking at all the teachers freaking out about being behind schedule, at CEOs of corporations angry that the Unions wouldn’t let their little minimum wage workers come into work in these conditions, at the Unions arguing with the bosses about paid leave, at parents dealing with cooped-up children bored of their video games and cartoons, high on sugar from copious amounts of cocoa. 

And that’s exactly what Crowley would be doing...if his building’s heating hadn’t broke.

Okay, wait, let him explain.

He thought it was a lark, you see, during Britain’s heat wave hit in the last few days of a waning summer in a world that, by all accounts, should not be but was, if he shut down his building’s heating and cooling apparatuses, thus making the few humans who lived in the floors below him (those who withstood every demonic curse he laced the building with to keep humans away, anyway) absolutely miserable while he, who, being a serpent, loved heat and warmth and glorious sunshine, spent hours lounging in the sun sleeping, gorging himself on Vitamin D and laughing at all the complaining humans and the maintenance workers who couldn’t fix the problem.

But, see, the thing is, Crowley had forgotten to turn it back on again.

Most of the humans had noticed their heat was off long ago, but Crowley had been spending most of his time with Aziraphale in the bookshop, only coming home to water his plants, and if he felt a little cold, well, he could summon a bit of Hellfire to sit in his fireplace and warm his entire flat, should he be sleeping there overnight. No problem. The heat would kick in.

Except because Crowley wasn’t thinking that until he was too cold to do anything about it (that was the trick thing about being a serpentine demon, after all; you can’t ever let yourself get too cold, or your magic stops working altogether and then you’re no better than a human who took a sip from El Dorado, which doesn’t do what it’s meant to do, and the water tastes like its been left out a few days, but you get the picture), the heat never came back on again.

And the roads weren’t plowed, so there was no way his precious Bentley would make it through the streets. Besides, he’d never take his dear car out for a spin in this weather, no sir, her tires were only built for this sort of terrain when he had the power to say they did, and as we’ve established, he didn’t.

So here he was, trudging through the blizzard like a madman (or like the main character in a disaster movie), slowly forgetting everything he’d ever known, up to and including his own name, except for the phrase playing on loop in his brain.

[I’m cold. So cold. So, so, so very cold.]

He had to wade through snow drifts that climbed up his thighs, and he could no longer feel his legs. His feet burned painfully, like he was on sacred ground but worse. In fact, he’d rather be in sacred ground right now. At least that felt like fire. And fire was warm. 

Crowley couldn’t feel his fingers. They were frozen, clutched around his coat’s front. The wool was heavy and wet, and the fur lining his collar wasn’t doing anything at all to help, just getting wet and whipping his cheeks. Stupid faux fur. He should’ve listened to Aziraphale and gotten the real fur coat.

Aziraphale. He should’ve listened to Aziraphale. If he got out of this without discorporating from the cold, he was never going to not listen to Aziraphale ever again.

Crowley was starting to warm up. The more he walked, in fact, the warmer he got. He couldn’t feel how his sunglasses had frozen to his face, the frozen metal burning the skin where it touched. He couldn’t feel his soaked jeans, frozen stiff around his legs from the biting wind. He couldn’t feel...well, much of anything, really, but that was all right, because he was warm.

Crowley shrugged out of his coat, left it lying somewhere on the sidewalk(?). He took off his scarf, the one Aziraphale had given him, and left it on a fence post. (Or maybe it was a meter. Or a bike rack. One of the three.) he wanted to take off his sweater, too, but he was too weak and he couldn’t make his fingers work.

Crowley found a very comfortable snow bed and lay down, nuzzling his cheek into the warmth of the soft, powdery, wintery stuff, and closed his eyes. He fell asleep quickly, his last conscious thoughts being of Aziraphale, of his angel’s bookshop, of the roaring fire with the angel beside it.

Warm and safe. Just like he was right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger... 
> 
> This chapter has a small continuation, don't worry! It'll be along for a few days.


	3. Nutcracker

“Angel!” Crowley called, pulling his sleeve up to check his watch. “Hurry! We’re going to be late! And you’re the one who always insists we do things the human way!”

“I’m coming, Crowley, I just can’t find my bowtie! Oh, where did I put that…?”

Crowley sighed deeply, leaning heavily against one of the bookshelves and dislodging a fair amount of dust onto the ground in front of him. In order to get into the festive spirit, he’d gotten tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet, which was in town at one of the local theatres. The reviews promised a good production, and he and Aziraphale hadn’t seen this performance since it premiered. He was certain aziraphale would appreciate it, and he didn’t think it was half bad either. 

But they wouldn’t get to see it at all if Aziraphale didn’t find his bowtie. Crowley knew from experience that telling him he could simply miracle it into view fell on deaf ears.

“Ah! Found it!” Aziraphale, triumphant, appeared on the landing. 

Crowley looked up, and both of their jaws dropped.

“Az…” Crowley trailed off. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s black suit since Warlock’s eleventh birthday, and he forgot hoe absolutely stunning the angel looked in dark colors. The crisp white shirt paired with a red and green tartan bowtie managed to make him look debonair instead of ridiculous. A small Christmas wreath pin was affixed to his lapel, and his black shoes, though faded with age, really pulled together the outfit.

Aziraphale was similarly stunned, seeing Crowley in a starched white tux with a black shirt underneath, a white cumberbund wrapped around his slim waist. The lapels, carved in an elegant wingtip style, and collar of the tuxedo jacket were lined with black velvet, and a blood red satin bowtie completed the look. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale darted down the stairs in a way that made his coattails flutter. “Oh, Crowley, you look absolutely stunning!”

Crowley, who was turning about as red as his bowtie from all the attention, fidgeted and looked away. “Well, er...with growin’ out my hair ‘n all...thought it was t-time for a change…” He glanced up shyly, spying the awed expression gracing Aziraphale’s lips. “You really like it?”

“I do, darling,” Aziraphale replied, reaching up to fix Crowley’s lapels, thumb brushing over the velvet. Crowley’s breath hitched, heart thumping wildly in his chest, and he began to feel rather lightheaded. His hair was in a sort of unattractive phase of getting long, the side shave growing out and getting a bit shaggy, and he hadn’t really been very happy with the style he’d used to begin with, having miracled up the entirely wrong kind of pomade in his distress. 

But Aziraphale’s eyes were glittering in the low light of the twinkling fairy lights and candles (electric only; Crowley’s request), and he was smiling so much that he seemed to glow. Crowley very much wanted to kiss him...but they really did need to get going.

“C’mon, Angel,” he said quietly, “let’s go. I’ve got us dinner reservations afterward.”

“Oh! How lovely!” Aziraphale purred, following Crowley out to the car.

~

The Bentey was playing the Nutcracker Suite on the ride home, taking a break from her usual Queen, as her occupants, filled to the brim with good wine and delicious food, conversed gaily and openly about the highlights of the performance. 

“The young woman who played Clara was absolutely fantastic!” Aziraphale praised with a delighted wriggle, sighing as he sat back against the Bentley’s seat, hands folded on his belly. No longer bound by the silly rules of what angels should and shouldn’t do with their corporations, he had allowed his stomach to show evidence of all the wonderful meals he enjoyed, especially during the holiday season. He felt pleasantly full and content, and, by the looks of things, Crowley felt the same.

“Mm, yes, and the Rat King was a marvelous villain,” Crowley, who was reclining as much as possible, one arm slung over the back of the seat and the other lazily directing the Bentlley on her way (not too fast; swift speeds, he’d learned, were not good for the digestive system of one very dear and beloved angel), pushed his glasses up onto his face and only just muffled a soft belch. (He hadn’t realized the restaurant he’d painstakingly selected for its roast goose, a holiday favorite of Aziraphale’s, boasted a fantastic roast lamb until the angel had pointed it out and, well, who was he to turn down something so delicious?! His cumberbund was slightly tighter now, but well, that was all right.) “I wonder how the dancers managed their steps with those costume heads on.”

Aziraphale chuckled merrily, like a certain holiday saint, and Crowley’s heart soared. It was almost a shame when the bookshop came into view.

The Bentley pulled up along the curb and Aziraphale unbuckled his seatbelt. “Well, dear, fancy a nightcap? I have a lovely Whiskey from 1794 in my back room still.”

Crowley nodded, stepping out of the car to get Aziraphale’s door. His tuxedo was lined twice over, and the warm meal helped a fair bit, but his ears were cold and the air smelled of snow and all of his snakey instincts told him a warm fire would be very much appreciated right about now. “Ah, yes, that American whiskey you ought when you were helping out the Revolution, wasn’t it? Thought we drank all that in ‘98.”

“No, dear, I still have a bit.” Aziraphale was fiddling with the door, Crowley watching from a few steps away. When Aziraphale beckoned him inside, he started to follow, but hesitated.

Aziraphale, removing his gloves at the doorway, turned to look back. “What’s the matter, dear?” He asked. 

A light snowfall had started in the time they’d been talking, intermittent flakes falling gently to the earth below. Crowley looked a vision all in white, the red spot at his throat perfectly pulling everything together. His eyes were skyward, but Aziraphale, looking around, couldn’t understand his hesitancy. “What is it, dear?” He asked, a bit apprehensive now. Maybe Crowley sensed some unseen danger.

Crowley indicated the mistletoe hanging over the entrance to the bookshop. “‘S mistletoe. We can’t both stand under it.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Whyever not, Crowley?”

Crowley blushed, shuffling his feet. “The humans,” he explained. “You, ah…” he clasped his hands together, fidgeting. “You’re supposed to, erm...kiss, under the mistletoe.”

“Oh, dear boy,” Aziraphale cooed, stepping out again and extending his hand. “Come on.”

Crowley hesitantly took aziraphale’s hand, letting the angel pull him forward. “Erm...Angel…”

The mistletoe dangled teasingly above them, snow and wind still blowing beside them through the open doors.

Aziraphale smiled a little bastard smile. “Crowley, dear. Did you honestly think I didn’t want to?”

Before Crowley could ask what, exactly, Aziraphale wanted to do, the angel had gently pulled Crowley towards him, their lips connecting in a kiss.

The gramophone in the back of the shop slowly began to play soft, romantic tones from the ballet, the music telling of two lovers entering a magical forest. At the door of the shop, the swelling song wrapped around two lovers, an angel and a demon, happily kissing for the first time in six thousand years.

And for the first time since little Adam had stopped the Apocalypse from happening, She smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the Nutcracker ballet and you like ballet or classical music, I HIGHLY recommend it. It's possibly one of my favorite ballets of all time! (And yes, I'm a fuckin nerd.)
> 
> The song i'm referring to during their kiss is this one here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7XPgu5nEUI0&list=PLUtjANhAH1uEfi05xkGKfvc6KHaUs5LGi&index=11
> 
> I'm soft for them wearing each other's colors, okay? Crowley looked AMAZING in white, ngl.
> 
> I'm imagining all these fics being in the same universe, just happening out of order. I'll reveal final timeline once they're all done, but you could look at this as Day 1's continuation.


	4. Cranberry

It was no secret that Crowley did not like sweet desserts. In fact, it was no secret that Crowley could barely stomach sweet anything! The demon made no secret of the fact that eating was only worthwhile is the meal was warm, meaty, and savory. He occasionally made exceptions, particularly for ice lollies when it got too hot wearing all black in the summer, but this was a general rule of thumb. 

Really, Aziraphale thought, Crowley’s protestations hid the fact that he was a picky eater. 

It was the winter of 2013. Crowley and Aziraphale, or, rather, Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis, were allowed to stay at the Dowling estate for the duration of the Christmas holiday while Warlock and his family visited his relatives in the USA. Crowley was rather nervous being so far away from her charge, but Hell had apparently set all its sights on the young Antichrist and, from what Aziraphale could tell, Heaven had, too. That meant the two agents were pretty much free...at least until after the New Year when Warlock would return with new toys, ready to spread more havoc in the new year. 

Aziraphale actually liked the young boy, despite his favor towards his nanny’s teachings. He’d noticed that Warlock liked animals, and despite Crowley’s best efforts (which, mind you, she was only trying as hard as required by Hell...but Aziraphale didn’t know, or at least pretended not to know, that), “Brother Francis” had stumbled upon the young boy feeding birds and gently relocating spiders. 

With the Apocalypse looming in a short five years, Crowley was increasingly on edge. She was being particularly snappy towards the cooks, who could never cook quite right to please her. (To be fair, Crowley did not enjoy eating daily like Aziraphale did, and was probably mostly fussing to cover up her lack of desire to eat at all, but Aziraphale still felt it was rather unfair of her to take out her frustrations on the staff.) 

Aziraphale knew that Crowley liked cranberries. They added a more sour, bitter taste to desserts that she tended to favor (and she was much more favorable to sweets with a feminine-presenting corporation, Aziraphale found). There was a cranberry bush growing in the Dowling’s garden that he’d been harvesting berries from throughout that summer. Partially to teach Warlock about respecting flora as well as fauna, partially because he suspected he might need them for just such a purpose, and partially because he’d caught Crowley eating them right off the bush while Warlock was at play. 

Aziraphale took the berries from the mini fridge that had been provided in his little cabin on the Dowling’s property. They were still as fresh as if they’d been picked moments ago because he expected them to, and also pitted and ready for baking, because he also expected that. 

The angel dutifully washed the berries to make sure they were ready, and then preheated the oven to 176C. He combined the butter, sugar, salt, and vanilla, lining the pan with the dough he’d made. Artfully, he sprinkled the cranberries on top of the flattened dough, then crumbled the rest on top. It was, admittedly, a very simple recipe, but it would be warm and tart fresh out of the oven; just the thing to warm and sweeten a cold and ornery demon. 

Aziraphale set the bars in the oven and set a timer for 50 minutes. While it was ticking down, he walked over to the wall phone in his cabin. It had an extension for outside numbers, as well as numbers inside the household. Aziraphale, however, didn’t need an extension to reach the phone in the servant’s quarters, where Crowley was staying. He could only hope the demon was there.

“Hello?” Came a well-loved soft bass feminine drawl. Crowley was so good at any voice she chose to imitate.

“Crowley, dear, would you like to join me for tea at the cabin?”

“Mn,” Crowley let out a yawn, dropping her pretense with Aziraphale. Clearly, she’d been sleeping away the cold. “Sure, angel. When?”

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder to peer at the timer. “In about 45 minutes?”

“Suits me fine. See you then.”

“Goodbye, dear,” Aziraphale said brightly, hanging up and wriggling with giddy joy. Ooh, this was going to be such fun!

~

Aziraphale had just got the cranberry bars all cut up and ready to serve when he heard a light rap on the cabin’s door. “Comin’,” he called in his roughened Brother Francis burr. He peered out the window just to check it was Crowley before opening the door. He had his jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and there was flour on his waistcoat, and a smudge of cranberry juice on his left cuff, but he figured Crowley wouldn’t mind too much.

As always, Crowley looked a vision. Small wire-frame spectacles affixed to her face, a flattering dark purple lipstick, high black turtleneck and fashionable trousers in a flattering cut under a short, high-necked trenchcoat in a military style with two flaps around the edges of the sleeves, making it into a fashionable cape, black wool with silver buttons. Topping it off was a fashionable velvet cloche hat with a serpent applique along one side and black leather gloves. Her usual severe nanny scowl faded into a fond smile when she saw Aziraphale. “Hey, Angel.”

“Hello, dear. Do come in; it’s absolutely freezing out there!” He stepped aside to allow her entry into his warmed rooms. A fire was already crackling away in the fireplace that really wasn’t supposed to be working, and two mismatched teacups and an old teapot sat at the ready, piping hot, at the table.

“Don’t mind if I do. Urgh, it’s frigid in the servant’s rooms. Thought my toes would freeze off!” Crowley slipped off her leather slouch boots and placed her hat on the coat rack by the door. She shrugged out of her coat, hanging that up as well, and flopped down into the chair closest to the fire. Aziraphale noted the ends of her sleeves were damp from exposure (clearly, the coat was mostly for show,) and coaxed the warmth further out into the room to reach her. The demon sighed, flexing her feet, covered in wool socks, towards the middle of the table. Her trousers were fashionably high-waisted, fastened with an oversized belt with a silver buckle.

Crowley’s female form was athletic in build, similar to her masculine form. Everything was proportionate; she didn’t fancy making herself a fashion doll, after all. Aziraphale blushed, scolding himself when he realized he hadn’t said anything, and had been admiring the way her natural curls (she hadn’t done much to style them before coming here, clearly; they still looked a bit mussed and out of place from sleep) flowed down her neck, her slender, muscular shoulders moving as she stretched with a yawn.

“So, what’s new, Angel?” Crowley said after another yawn had passed her lips. “Mmsorry, haven’t been sleeping well.” She reached under her glasses to rub at her eyes. “Been too cold for me to get comfortable, and every time I do, it always seems like the other staff wants me for something, since Mrs. Dowling left me to oversee the chores ‘n all.” 

“Poor dear,” Aziraphale cooed, cutting a nice corner bar for Crowley and a smaller middle piece for himself. “It must be so tiresome when you can’t sleep or eat. Cook’s told me you haven’t sent down an empty plate in weeks.”

Crowley made a face. “That Dowling man must have ash covering his tastebuds. I swear, the man likes his steaks well done. I mean, who likes a steak well done?! It’s an insult to the cow, at that point!” She sighed, sipping her tea. “Still, I really only need to eat enough to keep up appearances, but it’s just nice in the cold to have something warm in my stomach, y’know? Take the edge off.” She sniffed curiously, serpentine tongue slipping out from between her teeth. “Oh, Angel, is that…?”

“Cranberry bars,” Aziraphale wriggled as he set the plate proudly before Crowley, a fork placed neatly on the side. “Fresh from the oven. I made them this afternoon.”

Crowley smiled. “Aw, you remembered,” she said teasingly.

“Well, it was rather hard to forget, since eating them straight off the bush rather tinted your lips a flattering shade of red.”

“Mm. Cosmetics haven’t quite caught up to nature just yet in terms of pigment.” Crowley placed the first bite on her tongue. 

Aziraphale waited breathlessly for her approval. 

“Ah,” the demon sighed, licking her lips primly, “that’s delicious. Perfect mixture of sweet and tart.”

Aziraphale beamed. “I’m so glad you like it. Have as much as you like.”

They talked well into the night, as they were wont to do. Crowley ended up eating her way through most of the cranberry bars, but the resulting stomachache was worth it for the warmth sustaining her.

And if the staff talked about how much closer Ashtoreth and Francis were getting, well, let’s just say that spiders ended up in their sock drawers for the remainder of the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, if you're new to my fics, I very much enjoy feeding Crowley, so, ah...welcome!
> 
> My HC is that Crowley has more of a savory palette, but tends to crave more sweet things when she is female presenting. It doesn't mean she'll pounce upon just any sweet, though! It has to be perfect!
> 
> Shoutout to all my picky eater friends!
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed! It would make my day!


	5. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of Day 2's prompt: Snow

Aziraphale was not, in fact, at home enjoying his lovely roaring fire. In fact, he had gone out in the blizzard because he had heard on the radio that a homeless man had been found dead elsewhere in London, claimed by the cold and forgotten by the general populous, and he would be damned if, now that he was a free agent, any human was going to die in such a cruel and unnecessary way so close to his home. After all, what kind of angel would he be if he simply let people die? 

Now Aziraphale had sense. He had leather gloves lined with the finest rabbit fur and real fur earmuffs and wool socks and long johns, as well as a few little miracles that ensured the worst of the storm could not touch him. But if you were thinking of admonishing Aziraphale for wearing real fur, he would tell you that he, like the native peoples of old, believed in using every part of an animal, and he had every intension of eating the rabbit stew he had prepared from scratch, from rabbits he’d skinned himself, as soon as this mission was completed. He would also tell you that he’d donated the bones to a very clever young lady who Anathema had introduced him to who loved, as the young ones called it, “vulture culture,” and that those bones were now in good hands. He might also confess to you that the rabbits he had bought were not ones in their prime, and he’d really been awfully sorry, but it was their time, after all, as mortal things must die sooner or later. But he’d probably tell you, in the kindest way possible, to shut the fuck up and leave him alone, because what he did with what he bought was certainly none of your business.

After blessing every homeless shelter he could find with extra space, compassionate staff, and enough good quality, delicious food to last several centuries, and after gently guiding any homeless people he found sleeping in the shelter of buildings, or freezing to death trying in vain to hitch a ride to the nearest blessed shelter, he was actually feeling quite tired and rather looking forward to being at home with his lovely books and his cocoa, and…

And...oh. A demonic aura. And it wasn’t just any old, run-of-the-mill demonic aura. After all, any creature, ethereal or occult alike, would be mad to be out in this sort of weather without using so many miracles that it acted rather like a spotlight, and thus if it had been any old, run-of-the-mill demon, Aziraphale would have felt the presence halfway across the globe! No, he knew this presence, such as it was, very well.

Crowley.

The beloved demon’s familiar essence was so weak, Aziraphale reasoned he must be practically on top of his friend, due to the way it kept flickering low, sparking back to life, like a flame close to the end of a candle’s wick. The angel turned the corner near the abandoned shadow of a bakery he so adored for their pan au chocolat, and, yes, there, collapsed in a frozen, pathetic heap on top of a pointy snow drift covered in thick layers of ice, was Crowley.

At some point, clearly, he’d been drenched, for his clothes were stiff and covered in a thin sheen of ice. The tips of his fingers, his nose, and his lips were all a frightening shade of blue, chapped and bleeding, and the metal of his glasses had burned into heavy circles on his cheeks. His hair was weighed down, stiff with thick icicles hanging off of it, his pulse weak, heart barely beating.

Aziraphale choked on a sob, seeing Crowley in such a state, but then, his inner practical self kicked in. After all, he was a medic for many a war. He knew exactly what to do.

Trying to keep Crowley as horizontal as possible and moving him as minimally as he could think to do, Aziraphale lifted Crowley up, bridal style, and concentrated until he and his lovely demon were both safe and sound in the bookshop.

Good, a lovely fire was already dancing in the grate, happy to see old faces it knew so well. Now Aziraphale could get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything had to end happily, of course! :3
> 
> Please let me know if you're enjoying the fic so far! Hopefully, you aren't experiencing too bad a weather where you are!


	6. Sleigh Bells

Crowley did not like horses. They were nervous, twitchy creatures either afraid of their own shadow, or too stupid to notice danger. They were uncomfortable to ride, and all the bouncing made him seasick. So no, Crowley did not like horses, and horses did not like Crowley. 

That’s why Aziraphale was surprised to see him parked outside the bookshop, perched on top of a horse-drawn carriage. Little gold bells adorned the two gentle black mares hitched to the front that jingled merrily in the crisp night air as the horses shook their heads and stomped their feet, as impatient as their master. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried, delighted, but also...hesitant. He’d said such horrible things to Crowley the last time they’d seen each other in St. James’ Park, and he hadn’t seen Crowley for a year or so after that. The last time he expected to see him was during the winter season. 

Crowley tipped his hat, giving one of the mates a light touch with his whip. The two horses shook themselves with a whinny, their sleigh bells jingling. “Isn’t the saying ‘it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together’?” 

“I suppose it is,” Aziraphale allowed. 

The two immortal beings stayed silent, both looking not quite at each other, but not quite away from each other. 

“I’m sorry…”

“Angel, I…”

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “You first, dear boy.” 

“Right.” Crowley cleated his throat, breath materializing in the air before him. “Angel, I should’ve never asked you to do that for me. I’m sorry. I never want to put you in danger.”

“And I’m sorry, too, dear,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with his watch chain to avoid looking up into Crowley’s dark glasses. The color of mourning suited him well, and he looked handsome against the pale light of the streelamps. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was only worried…” he glanced up earnestly at hos friend. Yes, his friend. No use denying it. At least quietly, in his mind, where no one could see. 

(Perhaps, if he had known She could see into his mind, he wouldn’t have. But he didn’t.)

“Yes, about Heaven,” Crowley dismisses. “I know.”

Aziraphale pauses. Crowley was giving him an out, a way to hide what he was really going to say. A rescue as clear as the one in Paris. But Aziraphale didn’t feel like hiding, especially close to the season of giving. 

“About you, dear boy,” Aziraphale admitted, still quietly, because he was a little afraid of what Heaven and Hell could do to them. He hid his face by climbing up onto the carriage, looking up only to be met with Crowley’s surprised face. 

“About me…?”

“Well,” Aziraphale fussed with his scarf. “I reasoned you were not going to kill yourself. Even if you were trapped in a corner, I believe you would rather fight your way out than simply give in.” He glanced up at Crowley, the flames from the lamps catching in his Heaven blue eyes. “I was worried that you would be careless or clumsy, and hurt yourself by accident.”

“Oh.” Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly, looking away. Surely the pink in his cheeks was from the biting cold. Yeah. Sure. That’s what it was. “Well, er, I went through the trouble of erm...renting this buggy,” the demon patted the edge of the carriage. “Shall we go for a ride, Angel?” 

“That would be lovely, Crowley. Thank you.” Aziraphale replied, smiling at the demon. He was glad that Crowley seemed to be in a better mood this time, even if it had taken him several months to come round. 

Crowley cracked the whip and the horses trotted off, their bells jingling merrily in the quiet night. For a while, angel and demon were quiet. Crowley was busy guiding the horses, and Aziraphale was looking at all the little shops and homes that had begun to decorate for Christmas. 

Somehow, he hadn’t had a chance to really enjoy the season before now. A bit silly that an angel was not allotted time to celebrate his Lord’s birth, but that was the bureaucracy of Heaven for you. He didn’t know how Crowley felt about the holidays, only knew the snake despised the cold. 

It must’ve taken a lot of energy for Crowley to pull himself from a warm bed and make the effort to do something Aziraphale would enjoy. The angel felt all warm and fuzzy inside, and stopped worrying so much about Heaven. 

If Crowley could live in the moment, so could he. 

They left the city limits and trotted out into the countryside, dark trees surrounding them on either side. A small lantern on the side of the carriage was their only source of light, though both entities had some ability to see in the dark. They did have to worry about the horses, however. 

“Why didn’t you come round sooner?” Aziraphale asked, thinking with all his heart ‘I missed you.’

“Hmm?” Crowley didn’t fully look at the angel, distracted by driving. 

“Why didn’t you come to the bookshop? It's been months, Crowley.” I missed you. 

“Oh. That.” Crowley cleared his throat. “I was sleeping.” 

“You were what?!” Aziraphale asked, surprised more than anything. Perhaps a little offended. 

“Yeah, uh,” Crowley scratched at the close-cropped hair at his nape. “Other snakes do it, once it gets cold, and um. Dunno, I was...tired, I guess.” 

“Are you still?” Aziraphale asked. “Tired, I mean?” 

Crowley rolled his shoulders and didn’t say anything, adjusting the glasses on his nose. 

They circled back to town, stopping in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel had already prepared a miracle to get the fire going in the fireplace, and sure enough, the merry fire made a soft, welcoming light inside the dark shop. 

“G’night, Angel,” Crowley said through a poorly-disguised yawn. 

Aziraphale stepped down from the carriage, but held the lead horse in place. She was beautiful, her body dark and sleek, and she nuzzled into his hand. The red eyes behind the blinders meant that Crowley had made her from scratch or, at least, performed some sort of miracle on her, but she was just as beautiful for that. 

Crowley didn’t like horses, and the feeling was generally mutual. He’d showed his hand. Again. 

“Angel?” 

Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley awkwardly looming over him, like a young bird of prey that doesn’t quite know how to handle its own majesty. His glasses were like blinders themselves, shielding his eyes from the world. He looked much less emotional with them on, which, the angel knew, was why he wore them. He was hiding his eyes from the humans, yes, but from his fellow demons as well, lest they see how soft he really was inside. 

“Come inside, Crowley,” Aziraphale commanded gently, patting the horse. “Warm yourself. Rest.” He glanced up at the demon. “Please.” 

Crowley swallowed visibly, frozen in place. Then, he nodded, climbing down from the carriage. “All right, Angel. One drink.” He smiled mischeviously. They both knew there was never just one drink shared between them. 

Aziraphale returned the smile in kind. A shared joke, an acknowledgment of their friendship. “One drink,” he agreed. He looked his arm through Crowley’s and they walked up to the stoop. As Crowley moved to pull away so they could go inside, Aziraphale reached up, plucking the dark glasses off his face. 

Crowley’s yellow eyes glowed in the lamplight, the same golden color as the flames found trapped inside fragile glass. The same fragility resting on his face, in worn lines and bruised eyebags. Yes, he was tired still. Worn down by his superiors, hounded enough that he wanted, no, needed, to ask for help. 

“I’ll do it,” Aziraphale said quietly. 

“Wha…?”

The angel smiled sadly. “To protect you...yes, I’ll get you the Holy Water.”

Crowley floundered, fidgeting. “Um, I, uh…”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale warned, his blue eyes cold as ice, “do anything brash, all right? You mustn’t, Crowley, please. Promise me.” 

Crowley nodded. “Yes. Okay.” 

“Good.” Aziraphale beamed, and he was himself again, fully, completely. Like he could only be with one other being on Earth. “Now do come in. I’ve got some brandy around here to warm us up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did no research on if the song "Sleigh Bells" was even a thing in the Victorian Era, so...sorry, history nerds.


	7. Silent Night

Crowley was an introvert. Which no one he’d told could really quite believe. But those people didn’t know that “introvert” didn’t mean “a hatred of people.” Crowley liked people well enough, especially children. But people were also tiresome and boring and decidedly Not His Angel, so he valued his time away from them just as much as he did his time around them. 

All this to say that Crowley liked silence. What he didn’t like was this silence. 

There was a tartan thermos in beige and blue tones staring his down from the center of his desk. It had an ominous aura around it that had very little to do with the fact that it was radiating HOLY at the top of its lungs, and it was cutting through the natural scent of his demonic energy that was left in traces all over this flat like a knife, tearing down defenses that were ages old as if they were nothing. 

It was eating away at him, too, in ways he never expected. He felt like he couldn’t safely sleep around it, even if it was in the room, because it felt like it was watching him. 

Crowley didn’t believe in ghosts, but if he did, he imagined this was what he would feel like in a haunted house. 

(The reality of “haunted” places are that they are the meeting ground of occult beings, and sensitive humans feel uneasy there. At least that’s what Crowley had always been told by Hell, anyway.)

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” The phrase was still echoing in his ears, buzzing around him like an irritated bee. What could it possibly mean? Was it literal, figurative? Just one of the many things Aziraphale often said to push him away when they were getting too close? 

He was never going to walk on sacred ground for Aziraphale ever again. 

(Oh, who was he kidding? He’d walk on his hands in a little pink tutu over sacred ground for Aziraphale.)

“You promised me you wouldn’t do anything rash, Crowley.” Aziraphale had fired as a last parting shot. And that, more than anything else, was the final nail in the coffin. 

Yes, he’d gone back on his word. He’d never said the words “I promise,” but he had never lied to Aziraphale in six thousand years, and now, he had. But what was he supposed to do?! Aziraphale had told him he’d get him the Holy Water, but all he’d done was play at being a spy and get himself into trouble! 

And Crowley had walked on sacred ground. He had suffered with the consequences for weeks after, smelling like incense and wearing multiple socks and bandaging his feet and dealing with the bleeding…

The other demons could’ve noticed. He had smelled like a church for Hell’s sake! 

(No. No, not for Hell’s sake. For Aziraphale’s sake. Only for Aziraphale.)

He’d gotten what he wanted...but at what cost?

Crowley wanted to throw the blasted thermos across the room. Instead, he miracled up some industrial strength rubber gloves and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short, angsty continuation of Day 6's prompt.


	8. Choir

“Ugh,” Crowley moaned, retching into the toilet. “Bugger tofurkey, or whatever the damned thing actually is.”

“I believe it’s mostly flavored tofu,” Aziraphale said, flicking through his phone. (It wasn’t the latest and greatest iPhone there was, but it did everything he asked it to despite his data plan being basic at best.) He sat down carefully on the lip of the bathtub and rubbed Crowkey’s back as the demon continued to fetch into the toilet. “I’m sorry, dear boy. I didn’t know…”

“Not your fault,” Crowley sighed, sitting back on his haunches and awkwardly wiping his mouth. “Who knew Pepper was a bloody vegetarian at her age?”

Aziraphale handed over some water from the disposable tiny cups sitting nearby, feeling quite wretched himself to see Crowley so ill. After all, he’d gone through the effort of at least trying to eat enough to appear human. It was his serpentine instincts that had really ruined the evening. 

A soft knock came at the door. “Crowley? Aziraphale? You two all right?” It was Adam, sounding suitably worried. Dog made snuffling noises at the foot of the door. 

“Yes, we’re fine, dear!” Aziraphale called just as Crowley threw up again. 

“You don’t sound fine.” Adam sighed. “Sorry I forgot to tell you that Pepper’s family’re all vegetarians.”

“We forgive you, dear,” Aziraphale replied. 

“Sorry for ruinin’ everythin,” Crowley murmured, barely audible. A normal human wouldn’t have heard, anyway. 

But Adam did. Which is why when Crowley finally emerged from the bathroom, he got a gentle hug from the former Antichrist.

~

Aziraphale made Crowley go out and sit in the car while he went around saying goodbye and explaining the situation. Aziraphale was the extrovert between the two of them, something most people were surprised to learn. Especially due to his penchant to enjoy and value time alone, and his desire to get rid of any customer who looked at his precious books the wrong way. 

Crowley was miserable, and it wasn’t really due to the raw burning in his throat and sore discomfort in his stomach. The adverse reaction was due to his nature; as a carnivore, he couldn’t stomach large amounts of vegetables or fruits or, really, anything that wasn’t meat. He could if it was all part of a meal where meat was the star, but that wasn’t going to be the case at a vegetarian’s table. 

Anyway, no, he was actually miserable because he had probably ruined this family’s Christmas. Adam had been nice enough to invite them here, to a family dinner, and it had honestly been going okay. Better than okay, in fact. He’d played a multiplayer video game with the children while Aziraphale chatted with the adults, and he led a dessert heist while the parents pretended not to look, and it was fun and merry and like having a family. 

Except his stupid, snakey nature had ruined everything.

There was a tapping on the Bentley’s window, and Crowley, surprised, glanced over. Adam, Brian, and Wensleydale were all gathered around Pepper. They were all in the kid form of fancy dress; Brian had a festive tartan shirt and dress pants (somehow dirty as usual), Wensleydale had a miniature suit complete with festive tie, and Adam had on a dress shirt with a red bowtie to match Dog’s brand new red collar. And Pepper, who had a sweater and a short skirt with black tights and boots, was crying.

Crowley opened the Bentley door. “Hey, what’s wr--” He was startled by a sobbing Pepper, which was surprising for more than just the unexpected hug. Pepper was not a hugger, and she was also not a crier. The demon shifted, folding himself around her to embrace her tightly, running a hand down her back. “Pepper," he said softly, “what’s wrong?”

“She got worried when you started bein sick,” Adam explained. 

“She got upset she couldn’t find you,” Wensleydale said, “but Aziraphale told us you were in the car.”

“Sorry,” Pepper mumbled into his jacket.

“We’re all sorry,” Brian hung his head, and the other children did, too.

“Why are you sorry?’ Crowley asked. "It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know."

“I did,” Pepper wailed, hugging him tighter. "What if you got really sick ‘n died? Adam said you might not come back."

Crowley raised an eyebrow at Adam, silently telling him to lay off the occult secrets, and removed his sunglasses. The children had all seen his eyes before loads of times, anyway. “Pepper, look at me,” he soothed, letting her back away in her own time, producing a black silk handkerchief so she could dry her eyes. “I’m not gonna die from eating tofu. I can, and do, in fact, enjoy eating plant-based foods from time to time."

"So what happened?" Pepper asked, a hint of her old fire reappearing under her tears.

Crowley smiled. “Well, I’m a snake, at heart. A carnivore." He flashed his fangs at the children, making them giggle. “If I’m eating at a meal, I have to mostly eat meat. If I’m not doing that, because your family’s cooking fooled even a die-hard carnivore…”

“It was because I helped,” Pepper said proudly, tossing her head.

“I’m sure it was. But because I didn’t eat any meat, my body freaked out on me, and so I had to be sick. But I’m okay,” he reassured her, squeezing her shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t have been discorporated.”

“That was like what Aziraphale was at the airfield, right?” Wensleydale asked, in a tone that wasn’t really a question. 

“Yes. I wouldn’t have lost my body. This thing,” he flapped his hand, and the children laughed. “I’d have been very sick, but I wouldn’t die. If anything, I’m gonna be ten times hungrier tomorrow!”

Pepper wrinkled her nose. “Ew. You can eat after all that?”

“Not tonight,” Crowley grimaced, turning a bit green. “But soon, yeah.”

The door to the house opened, making all of them look up. Aziraphale was pulling on his coat and hat and looking very angelic, his body lit up in the doorway. “Well. Aren’t you the little choir out here?”

“The Them came to see if I was all right, Angel,” Crowley explained.

“And are you?” Aziraphale passed through them, pressing the back of his hand gently against Crowley’s forehead, feeling at his neck as well. 

“I’ll survive,” Crowley winked at the children. “Nothing like getting an arrow to the knee.”

Brian groaned. “That’s such an old meme, Crowley. You’re like my grandad.”

“Right, well, we’d best get on home,” Aziraphale said, all business. He had a feeling Crowley was feeling far more rotten than he was letting on, and he wanted to give his precious demon a chance to writhe in pain without worrying about who was watching.

“Drive safe,” Adam said, and a ripple of power extended over the Bentley, assuring that they would. Especially since Aziraphale was driving.

“Happy Christmas,” Crowley waved. 

As soon as they had hit the main road, some distance from the house, Crowley unraveled, rubbing his stomach and groaning in pain. “Urgh. You’d think I’d have a tolerance for this stuff by now.” He sighed. “The humans are sort of killing the planet with their agriculture.”

“They’d find another way to kill it, dear,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And shouldn’t that mean that it’s your demonic duty to be a carnivore?”

“Yeah, but…” Crowley grimaced as they went over a pothole. Aziraphale did not understand the art of driving the Bentley. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.”

Aziraphale groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re responsible for vegans.”

“Only the annoying ones,” Crowley admitted. “Though I didn’t think that some of them would go as far as they do.” He hissed through his teeth as Aziraphale hit another pothole. “Angel, this isn’t Mario Kart. The point is to avoid the obstacles.”

“What’s a ‘Mario Kart’?”

“Never mind, Angel. Just drive.”

Aziraphale had been intending to take Crowley to see one of the official choirs performing in the city tonight. The small local London Children’s Choir was the only one not performing in a church. But, seeing as the evening had ended rather unfortunately for the poor old serpent, Aziraphale decided that a night at home with some peppermint tea to soothe the demon’s stomach would be better instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I like feeding Crowley, but also making him sick. *shrug*


	9. Chestnuts

Crowley very reluctantly took a bite of the brownie Aziraphale had hastily handed off to him. Well, he couldn’t really be too upset; Aziraphale had the best intentions, after all. The wind was nippy and cold, and the demon was starting to freeze. The brownie was warm and rich and made with dark chocolate, which Crowley adored, and…

“Oh bugger,” Crowley mumbled, and before Aziraphale could say anything, Crowley cut the family in line at the vendor selling the brownies, knocking one out of a small boy’s hands. The child began to cry, and Crowley turned around, feigning surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he apologized, mostly to the small boy crying at his feet. “Please, allow me. I’ll get him another one.”

The parents went from angry to placated, the father lifting the small boy up in arms as Crowley produced another brownie, handing it over to the child. “There you are,” Crowley purred, tucking the festive napkin-wrapped brownie into the boy’s hands. “Sorry about that. Do you forgive me now?”

The boy nodded, rubbing tears from his eyes, and smiling sweetly. Crowley smiled back, turning when the mother, hands full with a baby in a carrier on her front (and another on the way, from what Crowley could tell...though she didn’t know it yet. She’d find out at Christmas that she could, in fact, have her third child. She’d been so worried about being unable to get pregnant again…) gently touched his arm. “Thank you, sir.”

“My pleasure,” Crowley replied. “It was my fault he dropped the sweet, anyway.” With a light brush of fingers against the baby’s shoulder, he ensured that the little boy would be warm for the rest of the evening out, and not be as fussy that night. (But still a little fussy; retired demon he may be, but demon nonetheless.) “Happy Christmas.”

“What was that all about?” Aziraphale demanded as Crowley returned, taking another bite of the brownie he’d shoved into his pocket. “You usually adore children and hate to see them cry, never mind be the cause of it!” Bless him, he actually looked angry!

Crowley swallowed. “Chestnuts.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Chestnuts, angel,” Crowley neatly dissected the brownie on his napkin, thumb rubbing over a chunk of nut hidden in the brownie’s depths. “They’ve got nuts in, and the little boy would’ve had a very severe reaction to eating one, seeing as he’s got a serious nut allergy. The parents were too overwrought with the new baby that they didn’t notice the fine print.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale smiled warmly as Crowley discarded the (now crumbled) brownie in the nearest bin. “So the new one you miracled for him…”

“Absolutely safe. I thought of one of those “Enjoy Life” treat boxes I saw once in the organic section at the shops. Should be a lot tastier than those, though. Think his parents will never find him a tastier treat.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Couldn’t resist, eh?”

“It’s just a bit of fun. Totally harmless. They will, however, have an easier time with the baby. And the wife’s going to find out she’s pregnant on Christmas.”

“How disgustingly cliche.”

“Could tell right away she missed her cycle. ‘S gonna be a girl, though. At least eventually, she will.” Crowley shrugged, tucking his hands in his pockets. “Daughter she always wanted, ‘n all that. She’ll be thrilled.”

“When will that be, do you think, love? Is thirteen too young?”

“No, don’t think so. Thanks, Angel.”

“A Christmas miracle a few years down the line?” Aziraphale chuckled, tucking his arm through Crowley’s. “Thank you, dear. It’s so sweet to see you unafraid to be kind.” Crowley hissed shyly, digging his chin into his scarf. Aziraphale beamed. “Come now, dear. I think I saw some delightful turkey legs at that stand over there.”

Crowley licked his lips. “Mmm, sounds delicious, Angel. All this cold is making me hungry.”

“Don’t worry, dear. Your tummy will be warm soon enough.”

Crowley blushed, but couldn’t help smiling, too. Aziraphale really would’ve made an outstanding demon of Gluttony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is my worst nightmare, as my little cousin has a severe nut allergy, and it always worries me that I'll overlook something like this while babysitting him.
> 
> Also, this is my only source of Christmas cheer because this season is very triggering for me bcs of all the fat/diet/eating/food talk, so if you appreciate the effort I'm putting into this fic at all, leave me a comment or kudos, maybe...?


	10. Gold and Silver

Angels and demons never required very much human currency to go about their duties on Earth. After all, is one really poor and homeless when one can miracle up whatever money, goods, or abode he needs?

They’d both had experiences with the poor, and also with the rich. They had learned from each other that the angel had been sent to give virtue to the rich, and the demon to tempt the poor. But they’d sent a hedonistic angel and a compassionate demon, so it really was a wash.

Crowley had been living among the revolutionaries in France. Some of them were former soldiers, but far more of them were boisterous university students, children turned away from their homes, families who bought gunpowder over bread because owning a gun was far more practical than eating. 

And Famine, the bastard, walked among them, his pointed teeth shining in the light. Before he was known as Dr. Raven Sable, he had other names and other honorifics, but the effects were the same.

And he had come to Crowley, too.

~

It was nearly dawn at the barricade, a ceasefire brought on by the night, cold and bitter. But the fighting would start again soon. And young soldiers would take their positions without breakfast in their bellies.

Crowley stirred as the young mother clutching her toddler to her chest moaned in sleep. Famine, looking vaguely human in a pristine, mocking version of the revolutionary uniform, sat down beside him with a grunt, long, bony legs curled up towards his chest, his close-cropped curls hidden under his hat. He had all his teeth, and drool spilled from between the elongated fangs.

Crowley made sure the young mother beside him was pulled into a nightmare (it was all that could distract her from Famine’s power), and that the child would have something to eat when she awoke in a few hours, and sneered at Famine out of the corner of his eye. “Go away,” he snapped. “They’ve got enough trouble here.”

Famine clicked his tongue. “My, what a bad mood you’re in, demon. I thought your kind reveled in this sort of thing.”

Crowley, who hadn’t eaten much since Ancient Greece due to disinterest in human cuisine, suddenly began to feel an ache in his stomach. “Stop that. I don’t want to feel hungry.”

Famine leered with all his teeth. “Oh, but you are so fun, demon. Most of your lot are. Never eating for centuries...your human corporations would’ve died ages ago. More little pets, to walk by my side.”

Crowley felt himself physically wasting away under his coat. “Go away, Famine. Go bother the rich for a change.”

Famine pouted as much as a creature with terrifying teeth can pout. “They’re not as fun.”

“Bugger off,” Crowley hissed, “or I will discorporate you.”

Famine giggled, wagging his finger. “Aw, but eating me would only make you hungrier…”

Crowley hissed, and Famine, laughing, left his barricade. The demon felt the worst of Famine’s spell fading, but in the pit of his gut, he still felt the starvation running through his bones. Famine was still here, never completely gone as long as there was suffering around him.

The demon swallowed, and went to break some of the policemen’s guns.

~

The crepes smelled delicious. Crowley could feel the warmth of them radiating out towards him. His angel liked sweet crepes, of course, but there were savory crepes as well, made of fish and beef and pork. Aziraphale was meant to be treating him, but…

Crowley hadn’t quite recovered from his run-in with Famine. Likely because he’d been knee-deep in the Horseperson’s territory from his first day in Revolutionary France. It had taken the creature sitting right next to him to kickstart it, but there you are. Crowley was starving, and a feat like stopping time, even for a moment, had made him feel quite lightheaded.

But though his stomach clenched and growled, though his mouth watered, though the crepes sat before him were warm and fresh and handsomely paid for...he couldn’t bear to lift his fork.

The demon contemplated his fork. Silver. What had silver gotten the nobility in the end?! Death and destruction, not even the children spared the wrath of the Revolution. (He had saved a lot of the babies and the very young, what he could smuggle through without using too many miracles, because he was supposed to gleefully watch them die.)

(His argument to Downstairs was, of course, that such young souls would surely be sent Upstairs, and if they lived, they could be tempted to Hell. Luckily, Hell didn’t take names of gruby peasant children, so it didn’t matter. But he had to wonder if saving them only landed them a worse fate.)

Crowley was so hungry that he was seeing stars. His belly ached, longing for missed meal opportunities centuries old, dinners that only existed in his dreams. He’d started daydreaming about devouring cattle in his serpent form, which only happened when he was on the verge of discorporation by starvation. (That’s how he usually knew to eat; there were downsides to developing human rhythm and one of them was burning calories.)

His stomach growled fiercely and he hastily gulped down the rest of his wine. Damn this Famine-ridden land. Damn it all to...Somewhere.

Everything was going a bit hazy.

“Crowley?”

A bit echo-y, too. That was a new one.

“Crowley! What on Earth…!”

A bit tilty, now. That was novel. He was pretty sure he’d been sitting up straight a moment ago. Why was he suddenly listing to the side?

“Crowley.” A firm hand gripped his wrist, a golden ring sat on a plump little pinkie finger. Crowley took a deep breath, and the world seemed to bleed gently back into focus. “Good gracious, are you quite all right, dear boy?”

Crowley scrubbed a hand down his face. “Famine’s fucking everywhere. Can’t get away from it.”

“Good Heavens,” Aziraphale exclaimed, “I thought it was only me! I was much more tempted than usual. I wouldn’t have run into those soldiers at all if it weren’t for…”

Crowley sat up, a feeling of dread curling up in his chest. “You can feel it, too?”

Aziraphale nodded, frowning. “It’s as thick as smog.” He looked sympathetic. “You poor thing. No wonder you looked piquey.” 

“I...hmm,” Crowley sputtered.

Aziraphale smiled gently. “You should really have something to eat, my dear. You’re no use to anyone half-starved to discorporation!”

Crowley took that as an invitation to carve into one of the savory crepes, its golden outside disappearing past his lips as he chewed and swallowed with a sigh. 

Maybe there was worth in silver and gold after all. At the very least, this edible kind of gold, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...angst...? Angst.
> 
> This was meant to be a fluff collection, but oopsie.


	11. Pine

Truth be told, Crowley loved the smell of pine. It reminded him of the days before England’s industrialization when forests stretched for miles on end, greenery drowning out all other color. It made it easy to wear black, to hide in the shadows. The tall trees made the humans fear the land they neighbored, and it smelled…

Well...like Eden, but not quite. 

Aziraphale had wanted to put up a plastic tree because of all the fuss a real tree would bring along with it, never mind how wasteful it seemed for the environment. But Crowley had insisted, making the point that the tree could be used for firewood once the season was over. And because Crowley seemed so excited about it, Aziraphale relented. 

“But,” he mused a few days before they were set to go out to the Christmas tree farm, “won’t you be cold, dear? It’s snowing out by Tadfield already, and the temperatures are quite nippy.” He was not prepared to deal with a cranky demon should the cold prove too much for him. 

Crowley had waved him off, snorting into his wine glass. “Nah, ‘s okay, Angel. I’ll come prepared.” 

The day of, Aziraphale was glad that Crowley had convinced him to do this. The demon was practically glowing with youthful energy, vibrating with excitement as they walked the endless aisles of evergreen, arm in arm, Crowley half-tugging Aziraphale along. 

The demon was, as promised, well insulated. He had on a fashionable wool coat (his only nod to Aziraphale’s distinctly old fashioned dress sense, seeing as the coat was Victorian) that tucked in neatly around his knees, leather gloves with hand warmers in the palms, a turtleneck sweater and jeans with a layer of long johns underneath, a sleek grey scarf knotted at his neck, a wool beanie that covered his ears (embroidered with a red snake, of course), and a full belly. Aziraphale knew, of course, that food was actually the most reliable way to keep Crowley warm, as the chill tended to make the demon sluggish if he was drowsy and hungry if he was wide awake. He was still surprised to see Crowley eat an entire appetizer, entree, and dessert when he typically only nibbled at his food, or stole bits from Aziraphale. 

The angel hadn’t seen Crowley eat so much in one sitting in a long time, and it was strangely endearing. It seemed to have worked, though, seeing as Crowley had all the energy of a kid on Christmas morning. 

“Angel, what do you think of this one?” Crowley pranced over to a stout, round spruce. The snow in the area had made all the trees look magical, but the color of the needles complimented the stark white adorning the tree’s boughs. 

“Hm,” Aziraphale brushed his gloves fingers across the surface of the tree, feeling to see if it was prickly. After all, prickly trees are not exactly conducive to decorating. “I like it. It’s a good size, and I think it will fit nicely in the corner of the bookshop on the other end of the fireplace.” He smiled, imagining the tree lit up with fairy lights and adorned with ornaments and popcorn garlands. “What do you think?” He glanced up at Crowley, who was pushing aside the branches with a slight frown on his face, looking for any imperfections. The tree’s branches began to shudder under the demon’s scrutiny, but Aziraphale didn’t mind for once. He found it touching that Crowley wanted only the best trees. 

It was why, in fact, he’d stopped asking Crowley about the trees. Just like his plants at home, Crowley was meticulous with these trees, and found fault with each one, usually gentling his insults by saying: “It isn’t worthy of an angel.” Meaning, of course, “it isn’t worthy of you.” 

Crowley nodded in satisfaction. “It’s a beautiful tree,” he admitted. “Great example of its species. Picea pungens.” 

Aziraphale frowned. “I vaguely recognize the Latin, but…” 

“It’s just the tree’s scientific name, Angel,” Crowley explained. “It’s called the blue spruce. Among other names.” 

“Blue spruce,” Aziraphale grinned as the tree seemed to straighten its trunk up upon hearing such praise. “Absolutely delightful.” He glanced over at Crowley, who had bitten into one of the needles thoughtfully. “How much is it?” 

Crowley glanced at the tag hanging off of the tree. “A little over 600 pounds.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. “Surely we can find a better tree—”

The demon chuckled warmly, pulling Aziraphale close to his side. “Don’t worry about it. Only the best for my angel, after all. ‘Sides, it’s worth the price. Look.” He pointed to the base, where the tree was neatly potted. “It’s alive.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale beamed. “Oh, we can plant it after the season’s over!” 

“Yes, Angel. We can plant it.” 

Crowley was nearly bowled over by a very excited Aziraphale as the angel tackled him in a hug. 

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s coat. “I would’ve so hated to kill the poor thing.” 

“It wouldn’t dare die on my watch,” Crowley warned the tree, grinning mischievously as it shivered again, “would you, you prickly little spruce?” The tree shuddered so much that a few dozen needles fell from its branches. “Nah, didn’t think so.” 

“Oh, do stop terrorizing the poor thing,” Aziraphale said without much malice, batting Crowley’s shoulder playfully, “and let’s go get this paid for and back to London. What do you say?” 

“Sounds great, Angel.” Crowley leaned down and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. 

It still felt novel that he could even do that at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss having a real Christmas tree in my home, but I'm allergic to pine! :'( I became allergic in the past couple of years, so I can only remember the trees of my youth.
> 
> Do you guys have any retired holiday traditions you miss?


	12. Ornament

They’d successfully gotten the tree back to the bookshop in one piece. Now, it was time to decorate it. Not an easy feat when you are mostly drunk and getting distracted by pretty much everything. 

Crowley suggested they order in, and Aziraphale had jumped at the chance to try the new Chinese place down the road. Crowley, having eaten more than he was used to earlier in the evening, wasn’t hungry, per se, but he was happily drinking a rich brandy that Aziraphale had in his cupboard dating back to the 1660s and occasionally snacking on some popcorn as he used a sewing needle to (clumsily) thread through each kernel to make a proper garland. He also had fried noodles in a greasy little bag next to him that he was snacking on as well. 

Aziraphale was enjoying the pork dumplings he’d ordered, sucking each one delicately off the chopsticks, and nibbling at a vegetable lo mein he’d gotten to compliment the dumplings. Chinese food tasted good when one was drunk, regardless of mortal or immortal status. He was sorting through a box of ornaments, souvenirs collected through the years. Most of them were in remembrance of certain events: an Egyptian crown, an apple, a woman in Victorian dress, the French flag. Even if said ornaments were purchased many years later, they still held memories for the angel, including the new nutcracker ornament he’d gotten to celebrate what was perhaps their first official date...at least for this holiday season. He smiled dreamily, thinking of Crowley so close to him, holding his hand throughout the performance, unafraid and unselfconscious. How he’d held Crowley back, and, in the dim light of the theatre, he’d spotted a happy tear rolling down the demon’s cheek, and squeezed just a bit harder. 

How, after 6,000 years, they were still here, together, and it felt like both nothing and everything had changed. 

“An’gl,” Crowley slurred, standing up on wobbly feet and steadying himself on a nearby chair that knew better than to tip over no matter the awkward angle it was balanced on. “C’mon, ‘n help me hang this.” 

“Coming!” Aziraphale trotted over, either less drunk or more coherent, he wasn’t sure which, and took up the far end of the garland. Together, he and Crowley wound it around the tree until it came to an end. 

Crowley giggled. “I like it,” he announced. “V’ry fesssst’ve.” 

Aziraphale giggled, too. “Crowley, dear, you may want to sober up, or at least eat a little more food. I’m afraid you’ll knock the tree over.” 

“Naaahhhh,” Crowley drawled, but obediently shoved a handful of fried noodles into his mouth all the same. After a second handful, he seemed slightly more coherent, with slightly improved balance. “What orn’ments y’got, Angel?”

Aziraphale summoned the box with a snap of his fingers, and managed to bring his food and drink over, too. He popped a dumpling into his mouth and lifted up the shining glass apple. 

“Ahh,” Crowley purred, his mischievous, unguarded eyes gleaming in the firelight. “The Apple of Knowledge. Y’know, some humans seem t’ think it was a pom’granite.” 

“Wonder who gave them that idea?” Aziraphale said fondly, reaching past Crowley to find a suitable branch. He didn’t quite trust Crowley’s coordination just yet, and even though he could miracle the ornament unbroken, it wouldn’t be the same ever again, so it was better to just be careful with it. 

Crowley tried to look suave, but just missed the mark. However, as he looked at the box, he frowned. 

Aziraphale felt the whisper of the demon sobering up, so he followed suit, and turned to look at his demon. Crowley had picked up a very simple ornament, letting it turn around on its little gold string in the light. 

“Aziraphale, this…”

“Had it custom made,” Aziraphale admitted shyly. “One of those lovely people on Etsy, that online craft shop. It was meant to be a surprise, but I thought I’d misplaced it…”

“It’s me,” Crowley said simply.

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale couldn’t quite read Crowley’s tone, and it unsettled him.

“Why?” Crowley asked, his voice hard, but his eyes and trembling lips betraying the emotions he was trying to hide. “Why make something modeled after such...such a beast!”

“No, dear boy,” Aziraphale soothed, gathering Crowley up into his arms, letting the demon wind his limbs around him. “Dear heart, I love all of you, every part that exists. This ornament...I love it so, just as I love you.” He pulled back only just far enough to cup Crowley’s cheek in his palm, wiping away the tears that were falling from the demon’s eyes. “And if you choose to use that beloved form again, I will cherish the opportunity to hold you and keep you safe and warm, just the way you deserve.”

“Oh, Aziraphale…” Crowley choked out a wet sob before diving into the angel’s shoulder. “I-I’ve h-hated myself f-for so long…”

“I know.” Aziraphale soothed. “And I know one conversation will not undo the damage that has been done. But know this: I think you deserve to be treasured, just like the ornament you hold.” He gently took it back from Crowley, letting the little serpent lie coiled in his palm. “I don’t think you can feel it, but there is love, woven into this ornament. The care and craftmanship,” Aziraphale began to tear up as well, and he sniffled, wiping away his tears. “My love, like this ornament, I wish to make you with love. I wish to carve love into your veins, until your entire being is surrounded with it, until it is your identity. And you may not feel it, but…”

“I do,” Crowley murmured. “I...I feel it now. Not...not generally, no, probably make me explode!” They chuckled nervously. “But yours?” Crowley smiled, pressing a hand to his heart. “I feel it every day.”

“Good.” Aziraphale pulled him close, and then down, parting his lips into an indulgent, soft, and loving kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, look...I was trying not to go out of order with these prompts, but I found myself with incurable writer's block for the given prompt of today, so...have a direct sequel to "Pine."
> 
> Sorry, drawlight. Hope you don't mind!


	13. Laughter

Crawley had just made his way up the nearest tree and settled down in a warm, dry patch of sunlight to take a nap when he felt angelic energy snap into existence very close by. 

The demon lifted his head, tongue flicking from between his lips, throat already contracting to regurgitate what was weighing him down, keeping him from a quick getaway…

But it was only the angel from Eden whose name he never did learn. What a bastard. Crawley smirked, settling back down again. Even though he was in snake form, he always found he could do things that weren’t snakelike. “Howdy, Angel.”

“Crawley,” the angel nodded curtly. “And it’s “Aziraphale,” thank you very much.” 

Crawley yawned, his jaw stretching open. “Whatever you say, Angel.” Although it was nice to know the angel’s name. Could be useful later on. 

Aziraphale huffed, adjusting his skirts restlessly. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Same as you, I imagine,” Crawley responded lazily, flicking his tail. “Securing souls for your side.” 

Aziraphale was looking strangely at him, which Crawley, who was trying to sleep, didn’t like the feel of. “What?” He hissed at length, since Aziraphale wasn’t talking. 

“F-forgive me,” Aziraphale began, and wasn’t that a lark? An angel forgiving a demon? It just wasn’t done! “But your corporation...it seems to have swelled up.”

Crawley couldn’t help laughing. “Well, it would do that. I’ve just ate.”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crawley lifted his head, blinking purposefully in confusion. “You can’t be serious. You’ve never eaten before?!”

Aziraphale raised his nose in the air haughtily. “Angels do not soil the temples of their celestial bodies with gross matter.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Crawley dismissed, carefully slithering down the trunk of the tree and shifting back to human form. The meal on his human body made him look pregnant, so he shifted his form (and gender) accordingly. Now, she was dressed in a long garment, with a hood to cover her hair. The fabric was tied just above her belly, and she caressed it, as she’d seen Eve do with her swelling belly. Maybe it was comforting. It certainly felt pleasant. “Angel,” she said, “you can’t honestly tell me you haven’t tried eating. You’ll love it.” 

Aziraphale glared. “You’re trying to tempt me.” 

Crawley shrugged. “Pretty sure I can’t tempt an angel. Above my pay grade.” She smirked when Aziraphale snickered at the joke. “‘Sides, aren’t you supposed to blend in with the locals? You’ve gotta try eating!” 

Aziraphale fiddled with his robes nervously, looking at his feet. “W-well, I s-suppose,” he twittered nervously. “I’m meant to look human, and if it is something humans do…” 

“Exactly,” Crawley drawled, muffling a burp. This form was clearly not meant to handle this volume of food. In her snake form, the meal she’d eaten was nothing a few days of digestion wouldn’t fix, but in her human form, she felt as though she’d be full for weeks! Fascinating. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked it. But the point was to see what Aziraphale thought of it. 

Aziraphale turned to Crawley, eyes bright like a child eager to learn. “How does one “eat”?”

“Well…” Crawley trailed off. “See, I sort of just…” she made a slithering motion with her arm, “and kind of catch the animal unawares and swallow…” She took pity on seeing Aziraphale go a bit green. “But I’m a snake,” she added. “Humans, they do this thing called “cooking” where they combine leaves and meat together and put it in this thing called a pot, or just put it directly on fire, and wait until it gets warm, and then they cut it up into pieces and chew it with their teeth and swallow.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered to Crawley’s belly. “And will I look like that afterwards?” He sounded more curious than disdainful. A good start, Crawley supposed. 

“Well,” Crawley hummed, “suppose you’d have to eat a lot to look like this,” she said. “I was sent up to cause more trouble, so I took a sheep for my supper. Cut down on their wool supply for a bit.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale fussed. “I’ll make sure they find a new material for clothing. Wool is so scratchy, anyway. Suited for cooler climates, I expect.” 

Well, it wasn’t a smiting. Crawley chuckled. This angel was something else. She hoped she’d get to run into Aziraphale more often. He was certainly amusing. 

“I’d like to try it.” Aziraphale decided. “Eating, I mean. Do you suppose you could help me? Er, since you seem to know a lot,” he backtracked nervously. “Can’t exactly ask the humans about how to be human or they’d notice.” 

“Of course,” Crawley drawled, beckoning teasingly. “Come this way. I have a small dwelling in the hills.” 

~

Aziraphale laughed, falling into Crowley’s shoulder. “I still can’t believe that you, of all people, introduced me to the concept of eating!” 

They were sat happily in the bookshop, the wind and rain kept at bay by the sturdy old brick and tea with brandy slipped in, to take the nip out of the air and put somewhere else. 

Crowley snickered into his tea. “And look where that got us, Angel. Your corporation is looking quite “swelled up” these days.” 

Aziraphale pokes Crowley’s side. “And whose fault is that? Someone has to appreciate the expensive restaurants you drag me to.” 

Crowley raised his hands in surrender, laughing. “Never said I didn’t like it, Angel.”

Aziraphale blinked, stunned after all this time that Crowley, slender and conventionally attractive in many ways, found his form, soft and getting softer still, found his corporation delightful. “You do?”

Crowley’s gaze softened, and he wrapped an arm around Aziraphale, pulling him close. “Angel,” he murmured into Aziraphale’s hair, “Aziraphale, love, I do. I always have. Love it, in fact.” He blushed all the way down to his neck. “It makes for a lovely cuddling partner during the winter. I’m always bloody freezing until I’m snuggled up to you.” 

“Mm, and whose fault is that?” Aziraphale teased. “You could fix the problem by eating, easily.” 

“That’s not as fun,” Crowley pouted. 

Aziraphale kissed him. “Then I suppose I will be warm enough for two.” 

Still, never let it be said an angel could not have a plan up their sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I continue to have writer's block...have this out of order prompt, featuring "bet you never saw that coming" energy.
> 
> Plus, "laughter" is a good prompt for Friday the 13th, right?


	14. Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of "Fire!"
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Tw: vomit

Warmth. That was Crowley’s first conscious thought.

To be honest, it was a good first thought. It came with a lot of very good connotations, after all. Warmth meant mulled wine. Warmth meant heated blankets. Warmth meant sunlight. Warmth meant home. Warmth meant safety. Warmth meant Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale! Shit!

Now, what Crowley expected to do, upon his brain finally getting around to telling him what exactly was so important about his previous actions, was what you, dear reader, might have expected Crowley to do. You expected Crowley to sit up, quick as a wink, breathing heavily, eyes darting around, hand over his rapidly beating heart, gasping for air he doesn’t need, the angel’s name passing his lips in a panicked, strangled cry. And on any other occasion, dear reader and Crowley, you would be right: Crowley would absolutely do those things. It’s in his character description, after all. But this isn’t just any occasion, and one does not simply survive discorporation by freezing when one is a serpent, even if said serpent is a serpentine demon, without a few consequences.

So this is where we find ourselves. Instead of doing what I have just described, Crowley instead merely blinked open his eyes, and made a sort of low, gravelly, grumbling sort of noise that could, loosely, be interpreted as: “A’ra’ale” if we’re being kind. And we are, so that’s what it was; a vague approximation of the name Crowley has said many times like a prayer: reverent, soft, and full of wonder and awe.

Dazed, Crowley slowly took stock of himself. He was in the bookshop, safe and sound, with no recollection whatsoever of how he might’ve gotten there, because the last thing he remembered was curling up in a curiously warm snowbank and falling asleep. So the angel must’ve braved the elements to bring him here. Okay. He had a warm compress resting on his neck, just beneath his hairline, and another on his chest, seeping warmth into his body slowly. He could feel his fingers and his toes, and the chapping on his lips. Ew.

He could also tell that the fainting couch he was lying down on was long enough to fit his entire body, and that it had probably been miracled that way. He was also dressed in new clothes; soft, warm flannel that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon (two scents he associated with Aziraphale), and was covered in tartan blankets carrying the same smell. He tried to take a deep breath in to sigh, but ended up coughing instead, loudly and deeply and wetly, something rattling around his lungs painfully. 

Aziraphale was by his side in a second, helping him sit up, rubbing his back as he coughed up, and then vomited up, phlegm. It was so disgusting that it caused Crowley to gag, which brought him back to coughing, which just repeated the cycle until his stomach was empty and he was exhausted. The angel lay him back against the arm of the fainting couch with an apologetic look on his face, miracling several soft pillows behind him to make him more comfortable. 

“Dreadfully sorry, my dear boy, but you’ve got pneumonia, unfortunately, and after you were nearly discorporated, I was too afraid to miracle you back to health, should it have shocked your system and discorporated you, anyway, and I couldn’t risk that, so I…”

“‘S fine, ‘ng’l,” Crowley mumbled, pawing at Aziraphale weakly as the angel fussed at him. “‘M fine, ‘m okay, I forg’ve you.”

“Well, that’s all right, then,” Aziraphale huffed stuffily, though it belied relief and fondness and love. “Ah,” he said, smiling, “I don’t suppose you’d like some cocoa? After all, warm, sweet, non-caffeinated beverages are supposed to be perfect for hypothermia.”

Crowley’s eyelids fluttered, letting the feeling of love and warmth and safety and Aziraphale wash over him as he slowly drifted off to sleep. “No th’nks, ‘ng’l, ‘m good,” he slurred before sleep claimed him once more.


	15. Cider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to "Warmth!"
> 
> Heavy on the food kink, so if you don't like that, don't read it please!

For a week, Crowley suffered with pneumonia. Much to Aziraphale’s relief, he had stopped trying to cough up his internal organs by day three, and was mainly just fatigued and feverish for the remaining four. In fact, Crowley was coherent by day six, and by day seven was able to actually mount the stairs to Aziraphale’s upstairs flat to sleep in a real bed.

The hypothermia-turned-pneumonia episode had been rather stressful and exhausting for them both, so Aziraphale thought that it was the perfect time for him to make the rabbit stew he’d been intending to eat for a fortnight now. After all, he hadn’t eaten in a week, and while angels did not strictly need sustenance to live, Aziraphale liked eating, and his human corporation had very much grown fond of it as well. And besides, for all Crowley’s usual protestations, Aziraphale knew Crowley did eat, too, and though he often went far longer between meals than Aziraphale, it had been well long enough for both of them, he thought. So, rabbit stew it was. He’d prepared it already, really; all it needed was a good broth base and some heat.

As soon as the rich, gamey flavors filled the kitchen, Aziraphale felt his stomach begin to grumble under his waistcoat. And he had a feeling Crowley’s corporation would soon begin to respond in a similar way. As predicted, within the hour, soft footsteps as light as a cat’s padded awkwardly down the stairs (Crowley couldn’t move with his usual grace just yet, seeing as his body was still weak and recovering), and the demon appeared at the entrance to the kitchenette, sleep-rumpled and handsome even though he looked far sharper than usual, the illness taking from him the artful curves of his lean body, leaving behind hollow bone and far too many shadows dotting his body near his collarbones, under his eyes, between the grooves of his ribs, and the shape of his stomach. 

And Crowley had been in need of a good meal since Armageddon, practically. Eleven years of stress had caused sharp shadows to begin to appear on his corporation here and there, only really seen in detail once he’d been covered in soot, made exhausted by driving through Hellfire and stopping time. His stomach had already begun to feel hollow, had already begun to grumble quietly to itself the minute his car had fallen apart, thus draining away the last of his adrenaline-fueled energy stores. So now, when presented with food that was practically under his nose, when his body had been fighting off an infection as severe as pneumonia, he was bound to feel hungry. 

And he was. Oh how he was. Aziraphale delighted in Crowley’s more serpentine parts of his nature, loved seeing his yellow eyes bleed into his corneas, adored little curious flicks of a serpentine tongue scenting the air, swooned as a low hiss rattled in his throat, sighed as the shadow of two venomous fangs pierced his bottom lip for a moment before they were carefully hidden away. And of course, the final tell was the demon’s poor stomach, which Aziraphale had only heard on a small number of occasions he could count on one hand in all of six thousand years, all occasions of which he’d been delighted to offer Crowley solace, in the form of delectable food.

“It’s almost ready, dear,” the angel reassured his lovely demon, who jumped, seeming to remember himself, all traces of serpentine hunger gone but not forgotten.

“Oh, er,” Crowley tried to deflect, “d-don’t worry ‘bout me, Angel. ‘M not hungry.” Which was possibly the only recurring lie Crowley had ever told Aziraphale in six thousand years, and one the angel was always quick to forgive. Crowley was used to thinking that demons ought not to be hungry, at least not for human food, had long thought that his purpose was to indulge Aziraphale without touching a bite of food himself.

But the demon’s stomach proved his words a lie when it sang out to be fed, and Crowley closed his eyes just as the yellow of them bled to the corneas.

But Aziraphale was nothing if not patient. “Do please sit down, Crowley, really,” he tutted, shooing Crowley from the doorway as if he was any sort of nuisance at all. “You’re quite dead on your feet, my dear, and I’d like to keep an eye on you.”

Crowley sat, ever obedient, and Aziraphale smiled, ladling a generous portion of the juiciest bits of the rabbits in the stew into Crowley’s bowl.

And the angel, who in another life would have made an absolutely excellent demon of gluttony, had to reign himself in to keep from squealing with delight when the half-starved demon fell upon his portion like it was the last bowl of rabbit stew on Earth. And the angel, who perhaps adored Crowley’s habits more than anyone rightfully should, had to swallow down bubbling giggles when the demon shyly asked for more.

And Aziraphale, bookseller, principality, retired angel, and Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, former title, happily served Crowley every last bite of stew until the entire pot was gone.

Later, after several glasses of warm, spiked cider had passed their lips, and Crowley felt somewhat more like his old self, they moved into the sitting room, and Crowley curled into the fainting couch he’d come to favor after a week of it being his bed (these sorts of things do start to feel hopelessly familiar after a time), Aziraphale taking up his usual armchair with a delighted sigh. 

For the first time in ages, Crowley felt truly warm and content. He’d been so stressed from the looming Apocalypse that he’d been unable to eat much of anything for eleven years straight, and that truly is far too long for even a demon to go on without adequate sustenance. Now, he’d eaten a pot and then some (for Aziraphale had surely miracled more than enough to fill the tall stew pot) of warm rabbit stew, and he was pleasantly full and very sleepy, the tangy spice of the apple cider only adding to his enjoyment of his current state of being. He was sleepy in the way that freshly fed snakes get, and he stretched out, pulling a blanket overtop his pajama-clad legs, hissing softly. His senses were still filled with about 90% rabbit and it was good, so good, even better because Aziraphale had made it, and oh, he was absolutely stuffed, his stomach stretching around his meal, and he sighed, deep and drowsy.

“Thanks, Angel,” the demon murmured at last, eyes closed and a satisfied smile gracing his lips.

Aziraphale smiled, indulgent, into his own mug of cider. “You’re welcome, Crowley.” And for once, he refrained from scolding the demon for not listening, because Crowley was already fast asleep.


	16. Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to "Laughter."
> 
> Lots of food talk and snake talk, so if that bothers you, click away!

“Why don’t you eat as often as I do, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked apropos of nothing one afternoon. 

Crowley, who had been startled out of a dream, snuffled himself awake, blinking blearily out from under the tartan blanket he had pulled up to his shoulders. “Nnf.”

“Oh, sorry, dear boy,” Aziraphale apologized. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“‘S okay, ‘ng’l,” Crowley mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning enough to stretch his jaw far wider than any human could reasonably do without some sort of debatable surgery. “Wassat y’were sayin?”

“Oh, it isn’t anything, really,” Aziraphale twittered, adjusting the spectacles on his nose as he carefully turned the pages of a Milton first edition that needed mending. “Just curious, is all.” 

“‘Bout what?” Crowley shifted until he was sitting sideways on the loveseat, one elbow gently supporting his head, like an actress in an old black and white film from the 40s. 

Aziraphale blushed. “Well, erm. You know we were having that discussion about how you tempted me into eating for the first time.” 

“Pfft,” Crowley snorted. “Calling it a temptation is almost insulting. You didn’t need me to tempt you at all.” 

Aziraphale smiled fondly. “No, I suppose not,” he conceded. “But regardless. I was thinking that the tables seemed to have turned since that conversation many years ago, and I was wondering why you don’t eat as often as I do.” 

Crowley grunted as he stretched, looking more like a bent utensil than anything graceful, but it was endearing all the same. “Mmnnn...well,” the demon began, “I don’t need to eat, just as you don’t. And once alcohol was invented, or, I suppose, perfected,” he shrugged. “‘S not my vice. Sloth has always been my sin of choice, anyway.” 

“But it can’t be because you don’t enjoy it,” Aziraphale pointed out. “I’ve seen you eat before. You’re picky, yes, but…”

Crowley shrugged. “My corporation’s developed a rhythm just like yours has. And when it’s cold like this,” he gestured to the window, where snow was gently falling down into the streets, “well, you’ve seen me eat strategically if I’m going to spend time out in the cold. Having food in my stomach is the only time that I feel internally warm.” 

Aziraphale came around the counter and sat primly in his armchair, fascinated by the conversation. “Then why would you not want to eat all the time? Especially when it’s cold?”

Crowley’s posture changed from confident to shy immediately. The demon folded in on himself, tucking his knees to his chest, long fingers worrying the edge of the blanket. “I...most of the time, I don’t...crave human food,” he admitted quietly. 

Aziraphale tilted his head curiously, but allowed the silence to linger in the hopes that Crowley would elaborate. 

Which he did. “It takes me a long time for my appetite to sharpen enough that I’ll eat human food. Unless I choose to, I mean, ‘s not like I don’t enjoy it,” he added, “it’s just...most of the time...I’ve gotta be really hungry to eat.” 

Aziraphale frowned in confusion for a moment, and then he thought back to the first time he had been introduced to the concept of eating. He had come upon Crowley, in the form of a snake…

Oh. Aziraphale smiled fondly. “Crowley,” he said softly, “you could become a snake if you wanted to eat more often. I don’t mind.” 

Crowley looked away, biting his lip, throat working as he swallowed. “It’s really not practical,” he said, hard and businesslike. Aziraphale suspected it was a well-rehearsed mantra that Crowley had developed over the years. “Once the humans industrialized, my snake form needed to...be retired. Mostly.” He sighed. “Besides, with the cold…”

“But would you?” Aziraphale asked earnestly. “Would you like to eat in your snake form?” 

Crowley wet his lips, and since his eyes were uncovered, Aziraphale caught them going fully yellow, so he knew that Crowley was considering it. But then the demon laughed. It sounded forced, and Aziraphale winced. “In another life, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, “you would’ve made an excellent demon of Gluttony.” 

Aziraphale was not going to give up the goat, so to speak. He wanted to show Crowley that he was not afraid of the demon, in any form. “It would be easy to get a full pig from the butcher, with a little convincing,” he mused. “Would you like that?” 

The demon sighed deeply, sinking down into the loveseat, eyes closing. A soft, weak growl echoed throughout the bookshop. Then, Crowley was in motion, almost nervously, reaching for his sunglasses and kicking off the blankets, ready to retreat, just as he would have done in days of old, when they had their rather annoying sides to think about. “Got to go, Angel,” he said, rising and striding to the door, “should water my plants, and all that.” 

“Crowley—” Aziraphale got up, following him to the door, a cold pit in his stomach. He felt that he’d made a mistake, and he didn’t want to chase Crowley away. Not after all this time. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean…”

“Yes,” Crowley said at last. 

“Huh?” Aziraphale stepped back. 

“Yes, I’d…” Crowley swallowed, still facing the door. “I’d like to...eat again.” And then he was gone. 

Aziraphale was left standing in the bookshop, which felt emptier without his beloved demon, somehow. But, at least Aziraphale could prepare his gift. And just in time, too: it was supposed to get horribly cold over the next few days, temperatures below freezing…

Crowley would be hungry, and looking for a meal.


	17. Wrapping Paper

There was an impending ice storm about to happen. All the humans were anxious about it, worrying about heating bills and food and electricity. Aziraphale certainly did not need to worry about any of these things. He only needed to think about any one of them, and he was provided for. Crowley was much the same way, though Crowley much preferred to sleep during cold weather. 

Aziraphale waited until his plans were well under way before calling Crowley. To his surprise, the demon picked up right away. 

“Hello?” The demon’s voice sounded slightly apprehensive, and Aziraphale imagined that the poor creature was really quite on edge by this point, restless and hungry and tired. 

“Crowley, dear, I was wondering if you’d like to spend the storm at the bookshop,” Aziraphale began brightly enough. “I know we haven’t weathered storms together for 2000 years, but I thought perhaps, with our sides disowning us…” He’d begun to trail off, nervous despite himself. 

“Of course, Angel,” Crowley sounded touched. “Want me to bring anything? When should I come?” 

Aziraphale thought of when his surprise was going to be delivered. “Oh, tomorrow, perhaps? Around two o’clock?” 

“Works for me,” Crowley said in a tone that was trying much too hard to be casual. “See you then.” And he hung up without waiting for Aziraphale’s response. It hurt the angel terribly to think that Crowley might imagine Aziraphale would go back on his word or change his mind. 

And then it hurt him again as he remembered Crowley had good reason to doubt him. But that was behind them now. Aziraphale was determined to prove to Crowley as many times as needed that he was loved and wanted. Especially by him. 

On the day that Crowley was to arrive, Aziraphale laid out the dish on a low table, covered tastefully by a tablecloth, and tried to affect an air like nothing had changed. No, of course this wasn’t a ploy to get Crowley to eat and be comfortable in his serpentine form. Not at all. Whatever gave you that idea? 

Crowley rapped on the door politely an hour later and Aziraphale happily jumped up from his chair to let him in. It was getting nippy already, and Crowley had run out without gloves, a hat, or proper shoes, but he had an overnight bag and a reusable shopping bag filled with wine and treats. “Sorry I’m a bit late, Angel, figured I’d stop and get—“

He pulled up short, as expected, tongue that was suddenly forked and serpentine flickering out from between his lips curiously. His body was stiff and still, barely breathing as he carefully set down the grocery bag. 

Aziraphale, though he was smiling like a demon in the midst of a good temptation, decided to pretend like this was normal, if only because it might set Crowley more at ease. “Do come in, dear boy. Let me get your things. Please make yourself at home! I’ll get us a fire going. Tea or mulled wine?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said slowly, measuring each word as though it were an ingredient in a recipe and saying them in the wrong order might botch the operation completely, “why on Earth is there a dead sheep in the middle of your bookshop?” His tongue was, however, sneaking out from between his lips. He was interested in the food, then, and receptive to eating. 

(Aziraphale suspected that he would be; after all, it had been rather a long time since he’d seen Crowley eat, and his poor demon must have been absolutely starving, between his corporation’s rhythm, the weather, and no doubt still recovering from the Notpocalypse. There were days when Aziraphale still felt the stress from such an event, and he was certain he was not alone in skipping meals due to anxiety or restless nights, feeling the lingering fatigue of stretching himself to his limits.) 

He didn’t want Crowley to misread the situation, make him feel like he was a carnival sideshow either, however. “It is simply there if you want it,” Aziraphale said casually, closing and locking the door behind him and puttering over to stoke the flames in the fireplace, adding in a cozy log. “I haven’t seen you eat a thing since we got the tree and, well...you seemed a bit...peckish, when you were here last.” 

Crowley chuckled, removing his sunglasses but staring resolutely at the floor, his long fingers fiddling with the metal arms. His posture was still nervous and drawn, and he looked small all bundled up in his heaviest coat, hair windswept and unkempt, so different from his usual fashion. Like he didn’t have the energy to maintain it. He sighed deeply. “I...Aziraphale, I can’t...what if someone sees.” He looked away, but not towards the windows, his eyes finding the edge of a bookshelf. 

“No one will notice,” Aziraphale said confidently, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his toes in anticipation. “But I suppose we could wait until dark, if you wish.” 

Crowley swallowed, throat clicking, and shuffled his feet. “Suppose that...would be best, yeah,” he admitted regretfully. 

To be honest, Aziraphale was a bit put out. After all, he was looking forward to seeing Crowley’s snake form again. He found the serpent beautiful. If one looked closely, one could see that the hide was iridescent with edges of copper and bronze in the right light, and the red underbelly shone like garnets. But he wanted Crowley to be comfortable; he had seen the demon nervous, and he did not with to recreate such a scene, nor have to be the cause of it. “Of course, dear,” he said softly, “would you…?”

But Crowley made a bee line for the stairs and darted up them. Aziraphale sighed, and went to redress the sheep. 

~

When the sun had set, Crowley returned wearing a thick robe over a Queen tee shirt and velvet track pants that were not for a masculine frame, but still fit him quite well. (Some fad from the 90s; Aziraphale stopped trying to understand fashion after the 1920s.) He looked more on edge in the bookshop than he had ever looked, even though they didn’t need to fear random angels popping in now, and he stayed still as stone at the foot of the stairs. Aziraphale was certain he wasn’t even breathing. 

“Come warm up, at least,” Aziraphale tuts. “I’ve laid out some things for you.” And he has. There are branches, rather like a cat tree along the edge of the window, connected to a thick, knobby trunk that winds around Crowley’s favorite loveseat. There is a heating lamp there now, too, and Aziraphale has put a seat warmer into the cushions that will activate when Crowley is there without any sort of electrical fuss, and it will never burn him because Aziraphale thinks it shouldn’t, even if he did get it from a rather shoddy pet store. 

Crowley treads forward on quiet feet, dazed. His hands trail over the branches, touch the heat lamp. He smiles as he sinks into the loveseat and nearly purrs as the heat starts up. “You did some reading,” he says, amused.

“Only a little,” Aziraphale lies, knowing that Crowley will know there is only one book about snakes in his inventory, and that it is an extensive encyclopedia on serpent care. (Gifted to Aziraphale by Crowley as a sort of joke when owning snakes first became popular. It has since updated by magic to include new domestic species and better information, including an exhaustive section on royal python genetics.)

Crowley hums, letting Aziraphale keep the lie. His eyes flicker to Aziraphale, and the angel realizes he doesn’t have his glasses on, and his eyes are full and golden. He might not know that. These eyes are the ones he’s most afraid to share, because they aren’t pretty, really. His yellow eyes weren’t to Aziraphale at first either, but they catch light and sparkle and have hints of orange and shining gold in them. These eyes are not for light. They are for hunger, they are for weakness, they are for exhaustion. There aren’t any jewel tones in them, except the deep black onyx of his pupils. 

“You’re not going to like it, Aziraphale,” Crowley said finally, casting his eyes away to the window. He’s staring out into the dark, cold night, wondering if he could leave now and make it back to his flat before the frost. He might call the flat “home,” but it isn’t home. Not really. If home is a place where you feel relaxed and loved and safe, then no, the flat’s never been that for him. The bookshop is home. But he’s often afraid to say so. 

But it’s so...tempting, to be around the sheep. It’s funny for a demon to be tempted, of course. They’re meant to do the tempting, after all, not get caught up in their own desires. But Crowley hates the cold, and he will claim that he alone has the rights to that bitter feeling against it, seeing as he’s a snake at heart and doesn’t have any internal warmth. That means that he can’t regulate his body temperature, either, so sometimes, the extreme heat will get to him as well, but in the end, he’d much rather be hot than cold. At least he doesn’t feel obligated to eat, then. 

The cold seems to start in his stomach. It curls up like a cat and makes itself at home, and then trails to the other areas of his body, filling up his veins and every inch of him until he feels like he’s made of ice, and one wrong move will crack him. He hates it, which is why he eats more often in the winter, especially if he’s going to be out in the cold. 

But Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s asking Crowley to do. So the demon lets the cold deep into his stomach, spread through his veins. Lets himself be and feel hungry, and yet do nothing about it. 

Aziraphale is watching Crowley carefully. He can tell when the demon starts getting cold. His breath slows, he stops moving, doesn’t even blink (which he doesn’t do much of, anyway, but still). It’s distressing to see Crowley like this, cold and hungry and yet denying himself because he’s decided that, deep down, he is monstrous and wrong. And Aziraphale hates that. So he says, “you know, I took care of snakes, once.” 

There is an audible silence in the room. Crowley turned back curiously to look at Aziraphale. His throat clicks as he swallows. “You...you did?”

“Yes, dear boy. Oh, it was sometime around your century-long nap. I was lonely and missing you terribly, so I found myself caring for a small collection of exotic reptiles.” He smiles fondly. “I became fascinated with them all, of course, but the snakes were really quite interesting.” He wriggled in his chair as he remembered. “There were a few royal pythons that were so tame, I could wrap them about my shoulders and they would sit there while I worked.” He blushed. “I think I learned to talk to them, like you can talk to rats. Anyway, I would talk to them. Mostly about you. They were fascinated.” He smiled and went on. “The young man studying the creatures had nothing quite your size, of course. But I did so love to feed them. They were so content afterwards.” 

Crowley glanced over at the tree for a moment, its twinkling lights shimmering in the low light. Then, he moved, slowly, deft fingers slipping between the branches until he found the snake ornament. The one made in his image. “Beloved,” he whispered, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the intricate detail. “You called this form beloved.”

“Because it is, dear boy,” Aziraphale replied. “I can’t transform the way you can. I’ve tried animals before, but it never comes out right. You are beautiful, and I could never recreate that.” 

Crowley sighed deeply, letting the ornament slide back into place, and turned to face Aziraphale. “I’m very hungry,” he admitted. “It’s started already. The cold’s in my throat and belly.” His fingers fluttered against his collarbones. “I’d...like to eat,” he admitted. 

Aziraphale, delighted, hopped up from his chair and pranced over to the table. “Then do, please!” He uncovered the sheep, showing that it had been gently wrapped in white butcher’s paper. He untied the twine with a flourish and…

Well, Crowley thought, there it was. Really, it wouldn’t be at all appetizing to anyone but a snake. It was wooly and moist and smelled like wet dog. But it was...warm. The demon sighed. 

“I was worried it was too big,” Aziraphale twittered nervously. “The research seems to agree that a snake’s meal should only be as large as their thickest coil, and, well, I haven’t measured recently, but…”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley chuckled, “‘ssss fine.” He was hissing already, preparing for the transformation. 

The angel held his breath as Crowley’s form collapsed. In place of the familiar human corporation he had come to know and love, a large and beautiful snake slithered, coiling at its base to help hold itself up. Aziraphale sighed fondly, but decided to save his praise for later. 

Crowley slithered onto the table, tongue flickering from his lips. His serpent form was bone-thin, and even in the low light, past his dark coils, Aziraphale could see the lines of his spine. Poor thing. Crowley must have been starving. 

Well, they’d have to remedy that. 

Long black coils curled around the sheep’s form, and Crowley’s snout noses around the sheep’s. Aziraphale watched as Crowley began to unhinge his jaw, before he seemed to remember he had an audience and closed it carefully. His restraint was amazing, really; Aziraphale was known to fall upon food after a mere few hours! 

“You might wanna look away, Angel,” Crowley said nervously, hissing slightly. “I know ‘sss not pretty…” 

Aziraphale stepped forward, gently petting the snake’s narrow head, watching as the serpent tilted into the affection. “It is,” he replied. “It’s amazing.” He bent and pressed a kiss to the cool scales. “Go on, please, dear.” 

Crowley lifts his head up to nod it as well as he can in this form. His serpentine body can do so much more than the snakes Aziraphale used to care for, and he watches as Crowley closes those serpentine eyes as his jaw stretches around the sheep. 

As the snout hits his tongue, there is a pause, and something like a sigh. Crowley’s body ripples, then his fangs come out, to help draw the food inside. 

It’s a slow process, and Aziraphale steps back, not out of disgust, but just to give him room. Crowley is one of the most endearingly nervous people Aziraphale has ever known, including all the humans he’s met over the years. And snakes can be incredibly fussy when they are nervous as well. He’d never told Crowley, of course, but he had witnessed the poor dear retching terribly in the last year before the Apocalypse-That-Never-Was, when Crowley thought Aziraphale had stepped out of the shop for a while. He doesn’t want to hurt Crowley, never really did even when he had in the past. He’d seen it as necessity then. But it shouldn’t have been, he realizes now. 

He wants to make up for it. 

After a long time, perhaps an hour but Aziraphale isn’t counting, Crowley’s mouth finally closes around the feet of the sheep. The meal is bigger around than his coils, but he’s also clearly underweight (at least in this form), so Aziraphale isn’t sure it’s really a poorly-sized meal at all. He waits until the lump works its way down past Crowley’s vocal chords before he speaks. “Do you feel better now, dear?” 

Crowley chuckles, lazy, satiated eyes falling on him. The gold irises catch the white lights on the tree, making them glow. “You could sssay that,” he allows. “‘M very sssleepy, though. Don’t wanna change back.” He shifts his coils carefully, but doesn’t get very far. His body seems tired, and he hisses. “Blassssted thing. Musssclesss hurt.” 

“Well of course they must!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Your serpentine form is quite thin! It must be terribly delighted to have a full meal!” 

Crowley settles his head over the end of his coils. “Sssupposse you’re right, Angel,” he admits, sounding apologetic. “Ssorry.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale scolds fondly. “Don’t apologize. You clearly needed to eat if your very core was down to bone!” Gently, at odds with his fussy tone, he lifts the coils with ease, going slowly and letting Crowley held him, lest he end up causing the serpent too much stress. “There, now. You can rest on my shoulders while I read. I’ll pull up in front of the fire, let you get some sleep.” 

Crowley blinks. “You don’t mind? I’m not heavy?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale hums, “not nearly as heavy as you should be. Anacondas can get up to 550 pounds, and reticulated pythons and other related species tip the scales at 350 pounds.” 

Crowley snickered. “I’m barely 160 poundsss in human form!” As Aziraphale gets comfy in his chair, the snake lifts his head and butts against Aziraphale’s cheek. “You sssaying you want to get me fat, Angel?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “I wouldn’t be opposed to your corporation at any weight, dear, though I do worry when you get frightfully skeletal.” 

“Think the humansss do, too,” Crowley mused, tucking his snout into Aziraphale’s neck. There was silence as he thought. “Could sstand to eat a bit more, I guesss. At leasssst in the winter.” The coils shuddered, and Aziraphale made sure there was a wool blanket at his back to deep warmth into the demon. “Forgot how nice this feelsss.” Crowley sighed in bone-deep satisfaction. 

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, and he reached up to pet the snake, resting his cheek against Crowley’s head. “I’m glad.”

An angel and a demon settled down to rest, while outside, the beginnings of a storm thrashed and wailed. But both are safe and sound...and a certain demon feels loved all the way to his very core. 

And the warmth he feels, he is certain, isn’t only from the meal he’s consumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and behind and also what are tenses?
> 
> Listen, I am well aware that these fics are meant to be Christmas-y, but I can't resist, ok? This is what you get reading my fics.


	18. Ice Storm

There is an ice storm raging in London. 

The super religious fear the wrath of God. The children cheer at the lack of school, finding more time to play video games online with friends. Adults enjoy the time off work, and nobody worries about taxes or bills. There will be small annoyances, of course, because there always are: dogs peeing on the floor and refusing to go outside, bratty children whining about being pulled out of their rooms for dinner, families with small children running low on hot chocolate. But overall, there is bliss. 

Aziraphale and Crowley are really enjoying the weather, too. Snuggled under a blanket on Aziraphale’s chair, the two beings cuddle snugly. Aziraphale feels safe and loved protected by long, winding coils, and Crowley, warm and safe and full, rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and listens to the angel read aloud. 

At first, Crowley was nervous about being in snake form still. He hadn’t wanted to turn back, as he hadn’t digested yet, scared of the way his stomach would look, swollen and distended on his corporation’s lean body. He’d spent time away from Aziraphale, away from the floor, shivering in the drafty rafters. Eventually, though, he’d calmed down (and gotten much too cold, even with a good meal in him), and shyly returned to Aziraphale’s side. This, of course, delighted the angel, and he set Crowley across his shoulders and snuggled up. 

So here they were, too immortal beings, just enjoying the life they could finally share without fear or doubt. It was their shared good will that kept London safe and well throughout the storm, with bits of chaos and mischief thrown in for fun, though never to be cruel. (Crowley might have been a demon, and he might have been very good at his job, but he never liked being deliberately cruel...unless the human really deserved it, that is.) 

Aziraphale finished the paragraph he’d been reading and closed the book, stretching carefully around the serpent, who was half asleep, hissing quietly in place of snores. (Not that Crowley snored much; usually only when he was ill or exhausted.) The snake blinked to life again, adjusting his coils and raising his head to look at Aziraphale. 

The angel found Crowley’s eyes hypnotic, and to be the center of their attention was something else entirely. “Beautiful,” he murmured, reaching out to touch the smooth, sleek scales on Crowley’s head. “You are absolutely gorgeous and fascinating. My serpent.” 

Snakes cannot blush, even if the snake is a demon, but Crowley demured all the same, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s palm. “Ssstop,” he hissed shyly. 

“Never.” Aziraphale pressed an eager kiss to his snout. “I must sing your praises, dear. To make up for all the times I couldn’t.” 

“Angel…” Crowley squeezes his coils lightly, a sort of hug, and rested his head against the angel’s chest, enjoying being petted. 

“Would you ever consider,” Aziraphale began quietly, musing, “leaving London?” 

Crowley shifted, raising his head again. “Leave my home?” He asked, without meaning to. The “without you” hung in the air between them. 

“No, of course not,” Aziraphale answered the unspoken question, brushing his fingers against Crowley’s underbelly, “No, with...with me.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley butted his head against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Sure, Angel. Where to?” 

“I haven’t decided,” Aziraphale admitted. “I’m just getting a bit...oh, tired, I suppose, of the routine. I’d like to enjoy this new time we have...elsewhere.” 

“Mm,” Crowley yawned, his fangs extending slowly. “I’ll figure it out. Plants are getting overwhelming in my flat, anyway. Need a proper garden.” 

“And I a proper library.” Aziraphale sighed dreamily. 

“Yeah,” Crowley snickered, “you’d never have to pretend to sell another book ever again.” 

Aziraphale laughed. “Oh, how delightful!” He kissed Crowley’s head. “You’d never have to be afraid of the bookshop.” 

Crowley lifted his head sadly. “Aziraphale, I’m not…”

“I know that isn’t quite the word I want,” Aziraphale admitted, smiling kindly, “but I know you still think about what happened during the Notpocalypse. When you couldn’t find me and the bookshop burned.” 

Crowley swallowed. Even thinking of such nightmares have him anxiety and made his serpentine stomach turn. He buried his nose in Aziraphale’s neck and breathed in the familiar scent. Dust, old books, wool and cotton and velvetine and something vaguely celestial that was all Aziraphale. “Won’t stop my nightmares, Angel.” 

“Maybe not,” Aziraphale said fondly, “but perhaps it would help. We’ve both lived here long enough. I’m ready for a change.” 

Crowley scoffed. “You never change. Just look at your clothes!” 

“I have changed,” Aziraphale said softly. “And I have you to thank for that.” 

Crowley, nearly speechless, could only let out a choked: “oh.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Sleep now, love. Dream about whatever you like best.” 

And Crowley, powerless before his angel, slept. And the storm outside raged on, affecting neither of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to "Wrapping Paper" which is "Laughter"'s sequel.
> 
> ...yeah, idk. More holiday fluff is incoming, but I had to get it out of my system. lol


End file.
